


After the Ashes

by AlphaFlyer



Series: Tom Paris Post-Endgame [8]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 14:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 77,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting a war is easy.  Paris and Janeway find out how tricky it is to end one though, when the Admiral returns to Voyager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Salle d'Armes

**Author's Note:**

> Do wars ever really end?
> 
> This story is part of my post-Endgame cycle, set shortly after Tom Paris has assumed command of a re-commissioned Voyager (see “Off the Shoulder of Orion”). For the titles of the other stories -- and a handy chronological sequence -- please visit my profile page. Despite the occasional self-indulgent reference, however, this one stands alone. For people puzzled by the chapter headings, a brief translation is offered at the end of each chapter. 
> 
> Paramount owns the ship and all the characters and locations you can find by googling Memory Alpha. Those you can’t and the story itself are mine. I write for fun, not profit.

 

**_Chapter 1 – Salle d’Armes_ **

 

“Expose your wrist, then parry the counter-attack in _septime_ and hit to the outside flank or thigh.  Left-handers have a tendency to turn a little when they try to counter-attack.  Remember – the key is to find your opponent’s weak spot, and get them to open it up for you by making them think _you_ made a mistake.  Like this.  One – counter – two.”

 

The tac-tac of the blades rang through the small gymnasium, their ancient martial music as anachronistic as it was exhilarating.  Jean-Luc Picard easily blocked the riposte, making a counter to his pupil’s thigh.  The hit having been acknowledged with a raised hand, Picard lifted the fencing mask up from his face, allowing it to rest on top of his head as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the gauntlet of his glove.

 

“Epée fencing is a subtle art, Mr. Paris.  If you signal your move the way you just did, your opponent can see your intention from a mile away.  Do that only when you _want_ him to see, to lure him in.  For the actual hit, use just a little snap of your fingers, to flick the blade onto the target – don’t wind up with your whole wrist.  That takes an eternity and risks freeing the blade you’ve just blocked.  If you do it right, I won’t realize I’m about to be hit until it’s already happening, and there isn’t a lot I can do about it.”

 

Picard put his mask back on.  “Let’s try this again.  Draw the attack, parry and riposte, but use only your thumb and index finger to whip the blade onto the target.”

 

Tom, who had copied the Admiral in removing his mask, flicked it back in front of his face with a sharp nod, and relaxed into the _en garde_ stance.  He had learned to enjoy fencing lessons during his time at the Kirk Centre -- despite the skepticism of many of his classmates, who questioned what a thousand-year-old combat sport could possibly have to do with advanced strategic and tactical command decisions in the age of warp drive and photon cannons.  Tom had no problems at all making the strategic connections.  Fencing required subtlety, patience, and the ability to play a game of cat-and-mouse before striking with lightning speed.  Not to mention trying not to fall flat on your ass, while running backwards _and_ keeping up your defences, all at the same time – seven years in the Delta Quadrant were enough evidence of the need for _that_ particular skill.

 

Tom’s biggest problem was coaxing a gangly, no-longer-quite-youthful body into providing the necessary fleet-footedness and balance, and getting an arm used to wielding hockey sticks, tennis rackets, velocity paddles and ski poles to work with much smaller, subtler target ranges, using fingers and wrist instead.  And then there where the lactic acid build-ups in places he hadn’t even known he possessed muscles ...  The first time he had come home from footwork practice, B’Elanna had uncharitably compared her husband’s normally loose and graceful stride to the waddle of an injured puddle duck.

 

Picard, despite these and other shortcomings, had identified Tom Paris as one of the few students with a modicum of talent for the ancient sport he loved so much. 

 

“You’re quite mobile, despite your height, and you can think on your feet.  That almost makes up for your unfortunate tendency to constantly want to be on the attack,” he had said (leaving Tom to wonder whether there was supposed to be a compliment in there somewhere). 

 

“My former security Officer Worf was like that.  Always on the attack, with excitable, wide, threatening movements – all of which made him easy to pick off with a sneaky counter-attack.  Some opponents are best waited out.  If you learn _that,_ and a bit of patience, you’ll have a whole new tactical vocabulary at your disposal.”

 

Noting Tom’s genuine interest in the sport, Picard had given him a holoprogram featuring himself variously as instructor and as opponent, for times when he was in space for extended periods of time.  But whenever Tom was on Earth – and the Admiral somehow always knew when that was -- Picard made a point of inviting his erstwhile student to a live lesson or two.  And, Tom suspected, a cross-examination on whether he was making adequate use of his professional education at the Kirk Centre.

 

This particular session was marked by the fact that Tom had had very little time for holo-pursuits while on his last mission – his first as Captain – and was obviously just as rusty as he felt.  They practiced for another twenty minutes or so until Tom’s leg muscles were ready to cry foul, and his right arm felt like it was about to fall off.  Picard removed his mask again, and Tom followed suit.  The two men saluted each other with their blades, and shook hands.

 

“Much better with your fingers and wrist the last few times around.  Not bad point accuracy.  But you still need to work on that flat-footed lunge of yours.  The fact that you can outreach most people with your height means you _don’t_ have to lean forward to do it.  Leaning puts all your weight on your front foot, and then you can’t recover your balance fast enough to get away, in case of a counter attack.”

 

“Thanks, I think,” Tom replied with a cheerful grin.  He was sore as hell, but it was a good sore – the kind that comes off good exercise and honest sweat.  Perhaps he could persuade the Doc to run a subcutaneous stimulator over certain parts of his anatomy, so he’d escape his wife’s ridicule and be able to walk tomorrow. 

 

“I hope I’ll be able to make it.  I hear Nacheyev has another mission planned for us, and I expect to be called in tomorrow – no idea when.  And tomorrow evening, I promised Will Riker to pop over for poker night for a bit.  The Enterprise is still at McKinley, and I think he feels the urge to fleece me in retaliation for stealing Harry Kim.”

 

The corner of Picard’s mouth twitched.  “Yes, I heard about that.  Will complained to me too, but if helps any, I don’t think he really meant it.  I think actually he was trying to make sure I’d support Kim’s transfer, namely by making me feel guilty over what happened with your First Officer.” 

 

The Admiral wrapped a towel around his neck and bent down to pick up his spare weapon.  Serious again, he shook his head. 

 

“Now about Tervellyan …  I’m sure you understand that was a collective failure, and had nothing to do with you.  Nobody picked up the signals.  I’ve asked Deanna Troi to have a look at our psychological profiling methods, to see whether we can improve them, get better and earlier warning next time.”

 

“Good luck with that,” Tom said, refusing to conceal the skepticism in his voice.  Short of highly invasive telepathic scrutiny, he didn’t think any amount of testing would expose potential problems – and Starfleet had already had to make it clear that it would not resort to the methods deployed by the likes of the Orion Syndicate to test ‘suitability for service’. 

 

More importantly, though, he really didn’t want to discuss the issue; the wounds were still too raw.  A change of topic was clearly indicated, and Tom took the fact that the Admiral was heading over to the equipment locker as welcome confirmation that he wouldn’t pursue the matter.

 

“You haven’t heard anything about Voyager’s next mission, have you?” 

 

Although Picard was still relatively junior in the admiralty, his wealth of experience meant that he was frequently consulted on sensitive issues – and the closed-lipped response Tom had received to earlier inquiries with Nacheyev’s office suggested that whatever Voyager would be asked to do, was sensitive indeed.

 

“Nice try, Captain,” Picard laughed.  His expression turned a little sour.  “You know _Fleet Admiral_ Alynna Nacheyev doesn’t like being pre-empted.”

 

 _Aha._ So Picard _did_ know.  And the tone he’d used when referring to Nacheyev …  Tom’s ears pricked up.  There was a story behind that slight inflection, a past.  And the past, he knew better than most, could be both a barrier and a gateway.  It was all in how you used it.  He gave the man his most charming, disarming grin. 

 

“Not even a hint?” he asked, as he handed his own practice weapon over.  “So I can do some advance reading, look good at the briefing tomorrow?” 

 

Somewhat conspiratorially, he added, “Not let _her_ have all the cards for a change?”

 

Picard chuckled and shook his head.  “Janeway was right.  You really are incorrigible. Drink?“ 

 

“Sure,” Tom shrugged.  “Non-alcoholic though.  After what you did to my body just now, even mere synthehol would lay me out flat.”

 

Picard snorted.  “Young people today.  No stamina.” 

 

He walked over to the public replicator, punched in one of the available commands, and handed Tom a blue, translucent bottle.  The younger man examined the label skeptically and with a slight frown. 

 

“Something to get my electrolytes back in a row?”  He shrugged.  “Oh well.  Bring it on, I guess.”

 

Both men took deep draughts in companionable silence.  Tom waited.  _Patience,_ he told himself.  He’d put out the bait; whether the Admiral would rise to it was beyond his control. 

 

Finally, contemplating the rim of his bottle, Picard asked conversationally, “What do you know about the conflict in the Denarian system, Mr. Paris?”

 

Tom almost smiled in private triumph. _Hook, line and sinker.  Thank you, Ice Queen, for whatever you did to Picard._

 

“The Binary War, between the Denarians and the Talari?  Nasty, brutish and long.  Going on since before I started at the Academy and still going, I think, with no sign of abatement.  Why?”

 

The words had no sooner left his mouth that understanding dawned in Tom Paris.  He found his confirmation in Picard’s face, and groaned. 

 

“Oh, no.   _No._ Please say it ain’t so.  Not a _diplomatic_ mission!  The last time …”

 

“… you were involved in a diplomatic mission, you did rather splendidly as I recall, even if matters didn’t get resolved _exactly_ in the manner foreseen by Starfleet.”   Picard waved off Tom’s protest. 

 

“But don’t worry, I don’t think they’re expecting you to play the role of senior diplomat; I’m told you’ll be taking someone with you on Voyager to do the job.  Whom, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose.  I guess you’ll have to find the rest out tomorrow.  Oh, and as for Alynna Nacheyev …”

 

Picard gave him an unreadable look, not entirely devoid of humour. 

 

“Let’s just say we’ve had our differences over the years.  But I guess you figured that out already.  Well done, Mr. Paris.  _Touch_ _é.”_

 

And that, as they said, was that.  It was clear that Picard was not prepared to divulge anything more, and Tom had to make do with the consolation prize:  an extra-long, extra-hot water shower, followed by transport back to Voyager and a vociferous complaint to his wife.

 

“So from the looks of it, Voyager will be asked to perform a shuttle service for some Federation Bigwig, to this backwater binary system full of hostile locals.  So we can hang aimlessly in space while the Bigwig goes planetside and tries to make peace, where everyone else has failed for the last twenty years,” he groused while changing back into his uniform. 

 

“And with my luck, they’ll make me come along and stand in a corner, for that reassuring and impressive uniformed presence.”

 

B’Elanna snorted.  “Poor Baby.  Make sure you polish those pips.  But what makes you think that’s all it’ll be?” 

 

They exchanged glances; neither needed to remind the other that their last mission had started out as a delivery of humanitarian goods, and morphed into something else entirely.

 

“Something Picard said.“  Tom sighed. 

 

“You know, I was hoping for a spot of exploration this time, preferably with absolutely no interaction with local populations.  Apparently there’s a new nebula-like phenomenon forming, right out of subspace off Antares.  Now _that_ could be fun to fly through.  I mean, would getting that kind of thing be too much to ask?”

 

“Since when are you into nebulas?” his wife made absolutely no effort to hide her skepticism.  “And may I remind you that someone else will be doing the actual flying?  No, don’t touch that, Miral, honey.  It’s Mommy’s favourite hyper spanner.” 

 

She reached forward in an attempt to disengage her enterprising daughter’s grip from the tool in question, eliciting a squeal of protest in the process.  Miral pouted and turned to her father for solidarity, but had to be content with being picked up and hugged. 

 

“Why don’t you play with the tool set that Grandpa John gave you, munchkin?  You can do almost as much damage as with the real thing, without giving your mother conniptions.  But for your information, Bee, I’ve _always_ had a soft spot for nebulas and subspace anomalies.”

 

He gave Miral a quick kiss on the head before setting her back down.  He watched her run over to her toy toolbox and smiled indulgently when she turned it upside down to dump out the contents, rummaging through the assorted bits until she found the hyper spanner.  Neither Tom nor his child made any move to clean up the mess, or gave as much as the slightest indication that they even noticed it.  B’Elanna rolled her eyes in maternal exasperation.

 

“In fact, wasn’t it when I was collecting plasma in that subspace thingy and got stuck, that you first gave a public indication that you … _cared_ whether I lived or died?  At least so Harry reported, afterwards.”

 

“ _Subspace thingy_?  A scientific term to show off your expertise in these things, Mr. Astrophysics Major?” 

 

Belatedly, B’Elanna seemed to realize that she wasn’t really addressing the issue her husband had raised. 

 

Glaring at him in mock indignation, she added, “And Harry _I-so-desperately--want-my-best-friends-to-be-an-item_ Kim should have kept his speculations to himself.  If I sounded worried that time – and that’s a Very Big If, hotshot -- it was because I couldn’t face the idea of losing yet another engineering team to eight weeks’ worth of shuttle replacement detail.  Plus, I really wanted that plasma.”

 

“Uh-huh.  Sure.  Miral, your Mommy is as lousy at lying as your Daddy is at being a diplomat.  Whaddya say, kiddo.  Pizza?”

 

Not waiting for the little girl’s enthusiastic assent, he walked over to B’Elanna and gave her ear a playful lick. 

 

“I’m starving,” he said.  Changing his voice to a husky whisper, he added, “And not just for pizza.  Fencing unleashes untold quantities of endorphins that we can put to excellent use after her ladyship has gone to bed.”

 

B’Elanna gave him a whack and headed over to the replicator, swinging her rear just a little bit more than strictly necessary for climbing over a pile of scattered toys.  She ordered two pizzas and her usual salad, handing the plates to Tom to distribute on the table and schooling her face back into family dinner mode.

 

“So, Libby tells me Tommy has started crawling.  _And_ taking the lids off things.  On the same day.  She found him trying to climb into the Jefferies tube in their new quarters this afternoon.”

 

Tom chuckled.  The presence of small children onboard had changed the atmosphere on Voyager considerably, he found – and generally for the better, in his opinion, even if the opportunities for spontaneously spicing up dinner with ... other activities were getting rare.  Most of their old crew would have given their eyes’ teeth to be able to come home at the end of a long shift for a spot of normal family mayhem.

 

“Guess childproofing his quarters is beyond the capacities of a former Ops officer?  Let’s give them our list of do’s and don’ts for toddler maintenance.  _And_ that hyper spanner to batten down the hatches.”

 

…..

 

An hour or so later, B’Elanna returned from Miral’s room to find her husband bent over the computer on their work station, a grim expression carved on his face.  She walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck in an affectionate gesture and peered at the screen.

 

What she saw made her gasp.

 

“What … what did that?”

 

On the screen was a landscape out of Dante’s Inferno, or worse.  Jagged remnants of what once must have been tall buildings, metal struts sticking out every which way, crumpled like paper.  Tree stumps, pointing into the air like accusing fingers, cut to the first knuckle by an act of unspeakable violence.  A river, choked with debris, yet curiously uninterested in leaving its banks.

 

And everything, everywhere, was covered in ash. 

 

No, that wasn’t quite right.  Everything _was a_ sh.

 

Her grip around Tom’s shoulders tightened, her nails digging into his flesh until he pried her fingers loose with a muted _ouch._ Understanding that she was looking for an explanation, even if there was none, he offered what he knew in soft, even tones.

“You’re looking at the effects of the latest in Talarian weapons technology.  They called it _The Scourge_.  Remember the Metreon cascade that destroyed Neelix’ home world, Rynax, and killed his family?  This one was apparently similar.  More limited in scope, but no less indiscriminate.  It started with a concussive effect that flattened all structures taller than three feet or so.  Then the heat generated from the core burned everything, from organic materials to man-made structures.”

 

Tom sat back and rubbed his face with both hands, as if to wipe away what he had seen. 

 

“They deployed about half a dozen of these on the most populated continent on the Denarian homeworld.  Instant death and destruction, over an area the size of Australia.  Except for the water.  It didn’t affect the water.”

 

“Kahless,” she whispered, her voice momentarily deprived of feeling, the same way the image on the screen seemed deprived of any colour but grey.  She didn’t need to ask about the civilian population that might have lived there, and whether they had escaped. 

 

 _An area the size of Australia._  

 

“Yeah.  And like the atomic bombs dropped on Japan during the Second World War on Earth, the Scourge was a game changer.  The Denarians decided that maybe peace talks were a good thing after all, and indicated their willingness to come to the table.  Of course all this happened after _they_ had pretty well laid waste to three of the Talarian moons.  No good guys in this one.”

 

“And that’s where we’re going?  Delightful.”

 

Tom resolutely shut off the monitor.  No need to keep looking at an image he knew would be burned into both their retinas for a very long time.  He dreaded the possibility of having to look at the real thing.

 

And here he had thought that killing 82 civilians on Tarakis was an atrocity beyond comprehension. He choked down the memory of the screams that would still come, unbidden, at times when his defenses were down.  Implanted memories, yes.  Not his, yes.  But true.  And real.  _He’d_ pulled that trigger -- he, or someone like him.  Again and again. 

 

In a way, the scouring of Denaros was less personal, and he wondered if the people who had ordered it, pushed the buttons, heard the screaming.

 

He could see in B’Elanna’s face that she knew what was in his mind, and gave a little shake of his head to clear it, and turned his thoughts resolutely back to the now.

 

“Well, I don’t know for sure that’s where we’re going, but Picard’s hint was a pretty strong one.”

 

He pulled B’Elanna around and onto his lap, encircled her waist with both arms, and buried his head in her hair.  Holding on to her warmth seemed to calm some of the Tarakian demons that were threatening to run amuck inside his skull.  This much had changed, he knew: The first time, he had refused her help …  He was no longer such a fool.

 

He breathed deeply, evenly, in his mate’s presence, but the image of what was on that screen remained. 

 

At least, he had learned, the fighting in that faraway star system had stopped.  There had been a ceasefire in effect for about six weeks now, and based on what he could piece together, the Federation had offered – or, more likely, been asked -- to go to the binary suns as a neutral party, to broker their mutual survival.

 

“You know why Picard told me as much as he did?  I think it was to pull one over on Nacheyev.  She must have pissed him off any number of times over the last few years.”

 

“She rubs just about anyone the wrong way.  I’m amazed you haven’t locked horns with her yet.”  

 

B’Elanna followed the new direction of their conversation gladly, if only to push he image she had seen out of her mind.  For now, anyway.  If Tom was right about their mission, she would soon enough be seeing more than she wanted, of a war she had never even heard about until this day.

 

“In fact, she seems to _like_ you.  Kahless knows why.”

 

Tom snorted half-heartedly.  “Now there’s a scary thought.” 

 

He had been thoroughly disquieted to find out that the Fleet Admiral not only seemed to know who he was, but that she had trusted his instincts on more than one occasion.  But he also knew that it would be only a question of times before those very instincts would collide with Starfleet interests or protocol – and then the honeymoon would definitely be over.  If Picard had managed to lock horns with her, how could Tom Paris hope to escape …

 

“Truth is, I think she doesn’t know what to make of me.  Picard’s first home-made homunculus of unorthodoxy.  Declaring me a failure, especially after what happened with Tervellyan, would be an indictment of her creation of the Kirk Centre.  As long as I keep getting lucky …”  He let the thought trail off as his eyes drifted back to the screen.

 

B’Elanna, for her part, was determined now to dispel what they had seen.  To let it be an abstract, faraway image for a while longer.  With a resolute punch, she turned off the screen. 

 

Denial did not come naturally to her, but if it would spare Tom another night of Tarakis-induced trauma, she was prepared to give it a try.  He had been hit hardest of all the crew by the artificial memories of the very real slaughter of innocent civilians; they had found fertile ground in a mind already seeded with traumatic experiences.  The nights Tom’s subconscious allowed the horrors to boil to the surface were difficult for both of them. 

 

She snaked her arms around her mate’s neck and nuzzled the tender spot right behind his ear.

 

“Still got some of those endorphins you mentioned earlier?  Are you ready to put them to use?”

 

Tom buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply.  His voice slightly muffled, but his arms tightening around her in appreciation of what she was trying to do, he said, “I don’t know, Bee.  After this, I may require some convincing.”

 

She bit him lightly on the cheek – not hard, just enough to leave an indentation, and brushed her lips over the marks she had made.

 

“Klingon females can be very persuasive, _Captain_.”

 

_______________________________

 

NOTE:  The _salle d’armes_ is the place where fencers train, spar and prepare for competition.  Literally translates as “hall of weapons”.

 

 


	2. L'Arbitre

He could, of course, have transported straight to Starfleet Headquarters, but with the image of the ashes of Denaros still searing his mind Tom felt the need for a bit of fresh air and green spaces.  And so he beamed down onto the Academy’s public transporter pad -- near the place where Voyager had rested for nearly two years – to take the walk to Starfleet Headquarters through the grounds of his former alma mater.

 

He stepped off the platform into the station’s light-filled glass rotunda, nodding politely to a small group of cadets who straightened instinctively at the sight of his four pips.  The novelty of that particular reaction was slowly beginning to wear off, although part of him kept wondering when the Admiralty would discover the huge mistake they had made, and bust him back to ensign.

 

Obviously, not today.

 

To his dismay, one young woman with second-year cadet insignia seemed to recognize him as something more than a generic four-pipper, judging by the slight “oh” her mouth formed and held.  Tom sighed inwardly.  Respect was one thing, notoriety quite another…  Only one thing to do: flash her his most roguish smile and give her a conspiratorial wink.  He took a certain degree of vengeful satisfaction in watching her turn pink as her oblivious companions dragged her off to their destination. 

 

The sun was warm on his face, and Tom took a deep breath.  The smell of the sea from the Bay mingled with the scent of roses and other, more exotic botanicals from the Academy’s extensive gardens.  There was something about the peaceful, not-quite-regulated bustle of the grounds -- something he had really only come to appreciate after Voyager’s return from the Delta Quadrant – that today was the perfect day to absorb.

 

But his eyes were casting around for something, someone; not seeing it, Tom headed towards the rose garden by the arboretum.  A smile lit his eyes when he acquired his target. 

 

Squatting by one of his beloved rose bushes – _Empress Norita_ , the label said --  the old gardener took careful aim at an offending shoot and snipped it off with a precision that would have made the EMH proud.  Tom waited until the old man’s left hand was safely removed from the vicinity of the secateurs before issuing his greeting. 

 

“Mr. Boothby!”  The man’s head lifted leisurely, and he squinted against the sun.

 

 “It’s been a while.  I see you’re still keeping the grounds as beautiful as ever?”

 

“Ah, Captain Paris.  Thomas.  I trust you are well, this fine day?” 

 

The gardener’s tone gave the impression that he had just been waiting for Tom to step around the corner.  Perhaps he had?  Rumor around campus had been that Boothby wasn’t actually all human, and was gifted with extra-sensory perception of some kind -- something beyond mere run-of-the-mill telepathy.  The wilder theories had him pegged as El-Aurian, a member of that nearly-lost race known as “listeners”. 

 

That, Tom mused, would certainly explain how Boothby could still squat at his age – and had no trouble standing up – while he, in his mid-thirties, had found it difficult to get out of bed after yesterday’s sparring session with Picard.  All musings aside, coming from Boothby the question about his wellbeing deserved serious consideration, which Tom proceeded to give it. 

 

Apart from the fact that his hamstrings were screaming, the previous evening had turned out a lot better than it had started.  And while his mind was not entirely at peace, the fresh air and sunshine had had some of the restorative effect he had hoped for.  In the big picture, he had a wife with whom he was deeply in love and who loved him back; an adorable, smart and healthy child; the respect of his friends and his family; a pretty good career (after some false starts); he hadn’t eaten anything with leola root in it in well over two years; and no one had tried to shoot at him or his ship this morning.

 

“Never better,” he replied, with a definitive nod and a smile. 

 

 

“How did you know?”

 

Boothby gave him a long, sideways look, before polishing his well-worn secateurs on his grass-stained pants. 

 

“Your last one ended two weeks ago: enough for all those post-engagement debriefs and some R&R.  And Starfleet will have to send you away for a bit, to keep you away from those who might mean you harm.  Besides, there is work to be done out there.”

 

Tom shook his head, smiling.  The man was a marvel, on top of every development in Starfleet, however small the detail.  Some gardener …  He seemed to absorb information through neural connectors in the roots of the plants that he so lovingly tended – roots that obviously spread out underneath the entire Headquarters campus.  Either that, or Boothby was in cahoots with Owen Paris’ omniscient secretary, Nicole.

 

“Not sure about the ‘keeping me away from harm’ thing, but yeah.  We had a couple of weeks down-and-debrief time, and are ready to move on to the next mission.  It never stops, does it?”

 

Boothby snipped off a couple more dead buds, then stepped back to appraise his handiwork.

 

“No, it doesn’t.  And neither does conflict.  The Federation is changing, Thomas.  They are beginning to realize that the willingness of sentient species to harm one another is a very old thing, not easily rooted out.  You cannot will peace into existence by decree.  Creating it requires patience, strength of will, and the willingness to move in small steps.” 

 

He smiled beatifically.  “Just like growing these roses.  And you have to be lucky enough to get both sunshine and rain.  Unless, of course, you control the weather, like they do here on Earth.“  That last was added with a dismissive wave of the secateurs upwards, towards the weather satellites.

 

Tom was intrigued.  Had the gardener been talking to Picard?  Or was he just prescient?  Well, however Boothby had come by his insights, Tom figured he might as well try for some free advice -- however cryptic it might be, even if stripped off the horticultural metaphors.  After all, if he were to admit it to himself, advice had been – in part – what he had come for.

 

“Tell me, Mr. Boothby, if you had to resolve a war where the parties have caused each other horrendous harm, where would you start?”

 

Boothby cocked his head ever so slightly, as if he was listening to something far off in the distance.  But his suddenly pensive eyes remained on Tom, scrutinizing him carefully as if trying to decide what kind of answer he merited.  Finally, he spoke.

 

“The truth is as good place to start as any.”

 

Tom suppressed the questions that threatened to tumble off his tongue. Long experience had taught him that with Boothby, one Delphic pronouncement was usually all you would get at any one time.  Eventually, what you got might even make sense.  This would, too, he was sure – and if he was lucky, he’d figure it out before it became a matter of hindsight. 

 

 _The truth is a good place to start._ At least Tom was certain that the old man was not making a gratuitous reference to his own first, inglorious career in Starfleet.

 

“The truth.  I’ll think on that, Mr. Boothby.  And -- thanks,” he gave the old man a fond and genuine smile. 

 

The gardener nodded absently, almost as if he had forgotten Tom’s presence already.  But then he remembered something, and the sunrise of a smile creased his face. 

 

“Wait one moment.  I have something for you.  Or rather, for your lovely wife, Thomas.” 

 

He turned and with a few snips produced three stunning roses, two partly open and one still in promising bud.  They were yellow, with the edges of the petals touched by a peachy rose, almost like a kiss.

 

“I trust Admiral Nacheyev won’t mind if you bring them into her office first.  Especially not if you tell her they are from me.  We certainly wouldn’t want her to arrest you for making off with Starfleet property.”

 

Tom reached out for the roses, and felt several of his fingers pricked.  “Ouch,” he said, more out of reflex than actual pain.

 

“Yes, she does have thorns, this beauty.  All the best ones do, you know.”

 

And with that, Boothby sank back into a squat, and started picking some unwanted insect off the bush he had been working on.

 

…..

 

 

Harry Kim was pacing back and forth in the Spartan waiting area outside Fleet Admiral Nacheyev’s suite of offices.  At Tom’s approaching steps, an exotic mixture of relief and annoyance crossed his face. 

 

“You’re late,” he hissed.  “And what’s with the flowers?  Trying to butter up the Admiral?”

 

“Very funny.  They have thorns, so they’re for B’Elanna.  Long story.  And no, I’m not late,” Tom said, with a shrug towards the wall clock.  “We still have three minutes, _Commander.”_

He watched with a good deal of amusement the sudden realization on Harry’s face at the reminder that Maybe One Didn’t Speak To One’s Captain That Way.

 

“Sorry, Tom.  Err … _Captain._ I just can’t figure out why we got summoned to come here in the first place.  I mean, doesn’t the admiralty usually just issue orders over comm link?  They did when we were on the Enterprise.”

 

Tom shrugged.  “How would I know from usual?  I’ve only been a Captain for, what, three months?  And only had one official mission.  Which I got from _her_ directly, come to think about it _._   So either Nacheyev likes to hang out with me – which is unlikely, it’s my father she’s bosom buddies with – or this is a really sensitive mission she doesn’t want to discuss over comm.  Or she wants to talk about something else entirely.”

 

The name _Tervellyan_ hung unspoken in the air between them.  Tom’s late First Officer, and Nacheyev’s former EA.  _Yes, the Admiral might want to talk about something else entirely._

 

None of the options particularly appeased Harry, and he started pacing again. 

 

“Relax, Har.  She’s human,” Tom tried to reassure his best friend.  He belatedly remembered that his new First Officer had not actually had the – mitigated – pleasure of meeting the Fleet Admiral even on vid comm, let alone in person.  And that, even if such thoughts were alien to Tom, given how strongly Harry felt about his career, such a meeting _could_ mean a fair bit to him.

 

“Who’s human?”  Harry asked, and not disingenuously.  He was clearly flustered out of his Starfleet socks.  Tom snorted.

 

“Boy, you really are a wreck.  You sure you’re ready for that whole command thing?  Steely eyes in the face of the enemy, and all that?  Hell, I’ve seen you enter a Borg cube with more resolve than this office.”

 

“The Borg Queen doesn’t hold my career in her hands,” Harry huffed back.

 

“Neither do I, Mr. Kim,” a cool voice came from the door that had opened – far too silently -- while they had been bickering.  “ _You_ do.  And from what I’ve seen, you are doing an adequate job of it so far.  Congratulations on your new assignment.  Captain Paris, good to see you again.” 

 

Tom turned to the door, summoning multiple generations’ worth of spine stiffening protocol genomes from deep inside the Paris DNA (where he kept them firmly locked up most of the time), and came to something resembling attention.  He even managed to locate and deploy a pleasant, none-too-officious smile, the apparent ease of which process filled Harry with instant envy.

 

“Fleet Admiral.  The pleasure is mine.”

 

Alynna Nacheyev gave both of them a small nod and a slightly frigid smile of her own, her sudden stop almost causing the short, slightly chubby man in Commander’s pips who was following hard on her heels to run into her.  She very briefly and perfunctorily introduced him as Zak O’Niall, her new EA, but refrained from making any reference to his late predecessor.

 

“My apologies, gentlemen.  Something has come up and I won’t be able to issue you your orders in person.  You are being tasked with a sensitive and important diplomatic mission, hence the need for a secure personal briefing.  The Federation envoy will explain everything to you.  Expect beam up to your ship at oh-nine hundred hours tomorrow, for immediate departure to the Antarean sector.  You are under the Envoy’s direction as far as the parameters of the mission are concerned, but you will retain full command and control of your ship, Captain.  And I trust you will already have laid in supplies for a deep space mission of up to three months’ duration.  Good luck.”

 

The Admiral’s cool eyes bored into Tom’s slightly puzzled ones for a moment, then looked down at the roses he was still carrying.  She raised both eyebrows, asked, “Boothby?” but without awaiting an answer she was gone, forcing O’Niall into a run in order to keep up with her effortless stride.

 

“Well,” Tom said as her steps receded, his voice coloured by a tinge of relief and amusement.  “Now you’ve met Nacheyev.  Was the experience everything you’d hoped?”

 

Harry’s face was ashen.  “I compared her to the Borg Queen, Tom!  And she _heard_ me.  And … _and_ … _she knows who I am!_ ” he croaked.

 

“You did no such thing.  And if you did, she’d probably be flattered.  As you will be, when you replay that little piece of conversation with the angst filters off.”

 

Tom clapped his best friend on the shoulder with his rose-free hand.  “Besides, the comparison is not entirely wrong.  Come on, Har; you look like you need a drink.  We just gained an unexpected hour, and no one will miss us.  Great time to play hooky.”

 

“Drink?  In uniform?” 

 

It was probably evidence of the extent of Harry’s trauma that he managed to go from terrorized to scandalized with rather dizzying speed.  Tom was having none of his best friend’s mood swings, though, and rolled his eyes.

 

“Come again?  When did you ever go to Sandrine’s _without_ your uniform on?  Or when did the Captain or Chakotay, for that matter?  And Will Riker plays poker for highly illegal Romulan ale, with all four pips on prominent display.”

 

Tom sighed demonstratively.  “Bottom line is this, Harry.  If you get anymore uptight, we’ll be able to use your butt cheeks to synthesize dilithium.  Loosen up.  That’s an order.”

 

Harry slumped into himself a little.  “You’re right.  I just … I don’t know how to act, I guess.  I’ve never been a First Officer before.”

 

“Well, start by turning back into Harry Kim The Almost Unflappable and join me for a drink.  We can take it from there _._ ”

 

“Yeah, okay.  Fine.”  But Harry was obviously not quite done being fretful.  “But we _still_ don’t know what our mission is _._ I mean, how can you be so … so unconcerned?  Not knowing what’s expected of us?  Sometimes I just don’t get you, you know that?”

 

Tom shrugged.  “Yeah, I know.  Laid back to a fault, that’s me.  But lemme tell you something, Har.  If our mission is what I think it is, spending another few hours not _officially_ knowing where we’re headed is just fine with me.  And besides, when did we ever know what we were up against next in the Delta Quadrant?  As the lady says, the _Envoy_ will explain everything.  So tomorrow, we’ll be a step ahead of where we ever were for seven bloody years.”

 

Harry snorted.  He may not have entirely calmed down yet, but Tom had a sense that he seemed to have realized he was acting like an idiot, and was trying to summon his old sense of humour. 

 

“Ah yes.  The _Envoy._   Wonder who he is.”

 

Tom pursed his lips.  “What makes you think it’s a he?”  He thought for a moment.  “I don’t think Nacheyev said.  Plus she didn’t give away any details whatsoever.  All of which leads me to believe our envoy is a woman.”

 

“Huh?  How do you figure that -- Paris logic?  Tuvok would be proud.”

 

Tom grinned, little devils dancing in his eyes. 

 

“Yep.  Elementary, my dear Kim.  Nacheyev likes being surrounded by men.  Have you noticed her EAs and senior staff are all guys?  She’s great buddies with my Dad, and her favourite sidekicks are Hayes and Bullock?  She won’t give Sulu the time of day and barely tolerates the Captain.  So when she doesn’t use a pronoun, it’s because she doesn’t approve of the person’s gender.  Take the way she looked at B’Elanna’s roses.  It all makes perfect sense.”

 

“No it doesn’t.  Got anything else?”

 

Tom became serious again.  “Nope.  Just a hunch.”

 

And since he didn’t think it right to rat out Picard’s own issues with the Ice Queen and the information he had gleaned as a result, Tom refused to say anything more on the matter of their forthcoming mission. 

 

He did, however, let Harry pay for the beer.

 

…..

 

With Voyager having secured one of the outer berths at McKinley, Earthrise filled the observation window in the ready room without being obstructed by one of the station’s spidery arms.  It was a sight Tom never tired off:  the jewel tones of his home planet – sapphire, emerald and topaz -- kissed by swirls of white clouds.  Shuttles moved gracefully around it like a swarm of fireflies, blinking until they entered the atmosphere, others emerging to join the dance.

 

The poker game with friends and colleagues on the Enterprise had gone on rather longer than any of the players had intended, but with the two ships about to head off in different directions and no idea when they would get together again, none of them had wanted to break it up.  And so, Tom found himself dozing over the ship’s supply reports.  He was startled into wakefulness when the hail came.

 

“Transporter room two to Captain Paris.  The Federation Envoy is ready to beam aboard, sir.”

 

“Acknowledged.  Be right there.”

 

Tom set down the PADD and straightened his jacket.  He entered the bridge on his way to the turbolift and gave Harry a quick nod as he went by his chair. 

 

“Commander?  It’s show time.  Care to join me?  Lieutenant Asil, you have the bridge.”

 

They headed into the turbolift together.  “Quarters are prepared, Har?”  Tom asked as the lift glided down.

 

“Yessir.  The ambassador’s suite, with fresh flowers from the airponics bay, _not_ replicated, as requested.  And a _chocolate_ on the pillow?  I mean, come on, Tom.  What’s that all about, anyway?  You never struck me as the kind of guy that sucks up to VIPs.”

 

Tom grinned.  “Oh, that.  Inside joke.  Something Chakotay once told me about, when he felt mellow enough to have an actual conversation with me.  Anyway, just more of that hunch I mentioned.  You still haven’t figured it out?  Probably just as well.  If I’m wrong, at least you won’t laugh at me.” 

 

Harry shot him a dirty look and opened his mouth to make a retort, but they had arrived in the transporter room where a young female Bajoran crewman was busy communicating with the ground station at Starfleet Headquarters. 

 

“Ready, sirs,” she intoned when they entered.  Tom flashed her a quick smile. 

 

“Thanks, Zelis,” he said, and nodded the go-ahead.  The tinkle of the transporter had barely finished when his smile deepened into one of genuine pleasure.  He’d been right.

 

“Welcome aboard, Admiral.  Or should I say, _welcome home_?”

 

Kathryn Janeway stepped off the platform, her own responding smile as wide and sparkling as the Milky Way.  Harry fired another quick glower off at his new Captain – _couldn’t he have given him a hint? –_ and lunged forward to relieve his former one of her duffle bag.

 

Kathryn looked around the transporter room and took a deep breath, savouring the air. 

 

“It smells the same,” she stated, with a very definitive, decisive nod.

 

Then she looked up at a grinning Tom Paris with a mock glare.  “You could at least _pretend_ you were surprised, Tom.”

 

“Sorry,” he replied, not in the least bit apologetic.  “There are only so many good roving diplomats to go around, and since we only talked a couple of weeks ago, I sort of figured you weren’t on another job already.  And Nacheyev made a point of mentioning that I’d retain command of Voyager, meaning the Envoy wasn’t a civilian _and_ outranked me.”

 

Kathryn raised an eyebrow.  “Picard and his love of clues must be rubbing off on you.”

 

Tom chortled.  “Let’s show us to the VIP quarters – not that you wouldn’t know where they are – and then you can brief the senior staff on the mission.”

 

“I assume you’ve wormed the gist of that out of someone too?” she asked in her most gravelly voice, albeit not without affection, as they headed into the turbolift.  She didn’t really seem to expect an answer, though, and turned to Harry in almost the same breath.

 

“And how are you, _Commander_?  It’s been way too long.  Congratulations on your little boy, and on the assignment.  The extra pip suits you.”

 

Harry responded with his toothiest grin.  If he had been nervous at Headquarters the day before, none of that was obvious today, and the last couple of minutes seemed to have positively infused him with extra energy.

 

“Thanks, Cap … Admiral.  Yes, great assignment.  But having you here is the icing on the cake.”

 

Tom suppressed a grin when the lift doors opened and he had to gently steer Janeway to the left with his hand on her elbow; her treacherous feet seemed intent on sending her to the right. 

 

“We’ve put you into the state quarters, Admiral.  I hope you’ll be comfortable there. I’m sorry, but your old accommodations are taken.”

 

Kathryn took her almost-mistake in stride.  “Of course they are.  And I hope Miral likes them as much as I used to.  Well, I see you gave me the one with the bathtub?  I’d hoped you would remember!  I’ll only take ten minutes to drop off my gear.  See you in … your ready room at oh-nine fifteen.” 

 

She shook her head with a rueful grin.

 

“This will take some getting used to.  But I promise I will do my best to remember that she is _your_ ship now, Tom.  If I don’t, you have my permission to elbow me in the ribs.”

 

Tom laughed and shook his head.  “She’ll always be yours, _Captain._ Always. _”_

 

…..

 

Word that Captain ... no … _Admiral_ Janeway was onboard Voyager for the duration of their as yet undefined new mission spread around the ship like wildfire, especially among those members of the crew who had served under her in the Delta Quadrant.  Tom could practically hear the excited chatter on the ships comm system; even Asil had indicated, ever so dispassionately, that she was looking forward to the chance to meet her father’s old friend. 

 

B’Elanna – who had been in on his suspicions, much to Harry’s disgust -- had suggested that he invite Janeway for a private dinner with the senior staff, but it didn’t seem right to Tom that they should hog her for themselves on the very first day.  There would be many opportunities over the next few weeks.  Instead, Tom asked Chell to prepare an open reception in the mess hall for 1800 hours.  Beta shift would lose out a bit, but he assumed that the event would last for a couple of hours, so that everyone should get a chance to at least drop by on a break.  The ship would leave the station around noon and should be fully settled into deep-space warp by then.

 

But first the briefing, followed by departure protocols.  Tom had scheduled the senior staff to assemble at 09:30; this gave himself and Janeway a few minutes for a quick one-on-one in the ready room.

 

“You’ve done some redecorating,” Janeway observed as she stepped into her former sanctum and scrutinized the blue upholstery.  The colour was accented by a few of Tom’s favourite objets d’art – including a full-sized replica of Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ – and a veritable holovid shrine to Miral in various stages of her precocious development.

 

“Like it?  I decided to lay off the antlers and other relics though.  I figured the blue was manly enough, especially after all those years of _gelato_ _mint_.”

 

Janeway chuckled and wrinkled her nose in olfactory memory as she remembered the cleanup Voyager’s crew had had to do after the Hirogen takeover.  The smell of their grisly war trophies had lingered in the ready room for weeks, although in hindsight she had almost preferred that to seeing her ship becoming a tourist attraction for two years.  Vandalism took many forms ... 

 

She inspected one of the holovids of Miral, smiling at the image of her goddaughter taking apart a model of the Enterprise with great concentration.

 

“I like it,” she said, looking around once more and setting the picture down on the desk again.  “Not wildly different enough to cause me serious grief, but definitely more you than me.”

 

Janeway settled into her favourite position on one of the corner couches, while Tom perched on a chair, waiting.

 

They had long since learned that as between them, directness paid untold dividends, and any wrapping up of tough messages in sugar coating only led to confusion.  Clarity, on the other hand, had always brought them far beyond mere understanding.

 

_“Please let me make this flight.  Please.”_

_“What makes you think it was your idea?”_

“ _I would have shot you down.”  “I know.”_    __

“Are you okay with me coming onboard like this, Tom?”  Grey eyes bored into blue. 

 

Tom chuckled.  “It was only a question of time, given your new line of work, and besides, it isn’t like I have a choice, is it?” 

 

He turned serious. 

 

“Frankly, if I’d had my druthers, I’d probably have preferred to have a few more missions under my belt and really learned how I want to run this ship, make it more of my own, before submitting myself to your scrutiny.”

 

He shrugged.  “But on the other hand, if I screw up, there’s no one I’d rather be doing it in front of than you – you won’t hesitate to tell me, and probably have some useful advice how to do better.  How about you?  How do you feel about being back?”

 

Kathryn’s eyes narrowed.  If she had expected the reciprocal question, the slowness of her response certainly did not give any indication of it.

 

“It’s odd, I can’t deny that.  As you know I’ve been back onboard a few times, while she was in San Francisco and of course for your instatement, but this is the first time I feel like I’ve _really_ been back.  But yet – not.  It feels different, somehow, and _this_ ,” she gestured around the ready room, “is just an example.  The changed crew configurations will be another thing to get used to, I guess.  Harry, a Lieutenant Commander and First Officer.  But if you’ve managed to adjust to all this – and it seems you have – I’m sure I can, too.”

 

She chuckled.  “I should warn you though -- I have a feeling I’ll probably be trying to get into your quarters at some point during the night.”

 

They sat in silence for a moment; there really wasn’t much more to say.  The truth was what it was.  The ship had been hers for so long …

 

“The mission.  Denaros and Talar?”  Tom broke the silence first.

 

She gave Tom a measured look.  “You’re either clairvoyant, telepathic, or even better connected already than I would have given you credit for, Tom Paris.  But yes.  Denaros and Talar.  The ‘Binary War.’”

 

Tom’s jaw clenched briefly.  “A case study in atrocities to rival anything the Cardassians came up with, judging by what I managed to find.”

 

Janeway simply nodded.

 

“I’m afraid you’re right.  Vicious and personal, as only fights between close neighbours or relatives can be.  And the Federation has been asked to try and help them put an end to that.”

 

“You’ll have your work cut out for you, Admiral.”

 

Another nod.  “I count on you and … _your_ crew to help me, Tom.”

 

Their eyes locked again.

 

“Always.”

 

“Thank you.  Then I have to ask you for only one thing before the briefing.”

 

“And that would be …?”

 

“Mind if I use your replicator?”

 

…..

 

They entered the briefing room together, Tom carrying the mobile holo projector Janeway had brought and setting it down on the table.  The assembled senior staff rose in unison, the universal gesture of respect for a member of the admiralty.  But formality went by the wayside almost immediately, as the EMH beamed from ear to ear and, refusing to wait for any formal introduction on Tom’s part, practically pounced on Janeway.

 

“Admiral!  I am delighted to see you again.  _Delighted!_ ” His enthusiasm morphed into a frown when he realized just why she had only given him one of her hands to pump _._   “Even if you don’t appear to be taking your nutritional intake any more seriously than you ever did.” 

 

This latter remark was directed, with carefully calibrated disdain, at the steaming cup of coffee in Kathryn’s left hand.  She raised it in his direction in mock salute. 

 

“I’ve cut down,” she lied, before casting her eyes around the briefing room and nodding at Harry and B’Elanna with a wide smile.  Baytart and Ayala were greeted in turn. 

 

“Lieutenants,” she said.  “Good to see you again, and good to see that Voyager has you both back.”    
  


“And Ensign, congratulations!”  This last was directed at Icheb, Voyager’s freshly-minted science officer.  Despite his customary slightly morose solemnity, Icheb still managed to convey the impression of someone beaming with pride at Janeway’s formal use of his new rank.

 

“You must be Lieutenant Asil,” Janeway finally turned to the one member of the senior staff who had not served with her in the Delta Quadrant in some role or another -- and the one of Tuvok’s children she had never actually met in person.

 

“You are the image of your mother.”

 

The Vulcan ops officer raised an eyebrow.  She was used, on board this ship in particular, to being compared to her father, but as far as anyone would have been able to tell, was not displeased by the reference instead to T’Pel.

 

“It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Admiral,” she said simply.

 

Janeway turned to Tom.  “With your permission, Captain?”

 

Tom nodded.  “The hour is yours,” he said, and activated the holo projector for her before settling into his chair at the head of the briefing table.  With a slight hum, the image of a star system sprang up and expanded to take up most of the space between the three officers. 

 

“You’ll need to see the orbits to take in the whole picture,” Janeway explained.  “Computer, animate at five thousand times rotational speed.”

 

At the centre of the ensuing dance were two stars of roughly equivalent magnitude and brightness.  Evidently twinned, despite the considerable distance between them, they slowly moved around one another.  Each was in turn circled by a number of planets with eccentric but apparently steady orbits, some with sizeable moons.  Two cold gas giants occupied the outer parameter -- moving in slow motion, and trapped in different but equally wildly elliptical orbits that encompassed both suns.  A small star cluster nearby shimmered like a swarm of fireflies on a hazy summer’s night.

 

“Here in the centre, we have the binary suns of Denaros and Talar.  It used to be known in the Federation as the Denarian system, but the Talari took offence.  They won’t talk to anyone who calls it that.  So, as a matter of Official Federation policy, we don’t.”

 

Janeway stared at all the officers in turn to make sure the point would register.  Tom couldn’t resist a firm, “Yes, Ma’am,” which caused her lips to quirk a little.

 

“What do we call it, then?”

 

“Nothing, if we can avoid it.  If we have to, we refer to the two sovereign civilizations that live there by their names.  And we can call ourselves lucky that their alphabet is similar to Standard, and that they have accepted the order in which the references are made on that basis.  _Denaros and Talar._   Always.”

 

The two cultures that dominated the sector had taken very similar evolutionary paths, as well as being roughly equivalent in their development.  Relations were established early and peacefully, initially by means of communications and then later, when the Denarians had developed space travel, face-to-face, with intermarriages and exchanges being common occurrences.  Whether thanks to parallel evolution, bribery, or good old-fashioned industrial espionage, the Talari caught up quickly to any of the Denarians’ technological advances. 

 

Before long, though the colonization race was on.  Both suns, by quirk of cosmic fate, were blessed with several M-class worlds, which were the first to be subject to expansion, without noticeable controversy.  In addition to the Denarians’ home world, their sun boasted three planets and two moons that were suitable -- if not for mass settlement then certainly for resource exploitation; Talar for its part had two planets and four moons in its immediate vicinity.

 

“And they got along nicely up to when?”  Harry asked.  “When they ran out of places to go, developed warp capability and headed for the neighbouring systems?”

 

“That’s pretty well when the problems started,” Janeway confirmed with a nod.  “Although warp technology remains very rudimentary.  They get up to a maximum speed of Warp 1.5, but that’s all they really need given the distances in the cluster.  Some early enlightened leaders, when they were still limited to impulse, had agreed that each race would be entitled to take over the worlds that circled their respective suns, so everything went swimmingly while they were confined to those.”

 

“Nothing of interest in the gas giants?  Seems to me that a common orbit around both suns could give rise to disputes, if there were any resources to be had.”

 

“Very perceptive, Tom.  Luckily they are what they are – balls of uninteresting gas, so that bought a decade or so of peace.  There were treaties regulating relations between the two peoples and regular diplomatic contacts, trade, and people-to-people relations.  But expansion into the neighbouring systems started to cause frictions almost immediately.  The Talari got there first, by virtue of proximity, and quickly started to lay claim to and colonize five uninhabited M- and L-class planetoids here …” she pointed at a small star, “… and here.”

 

“At what point did the Denarians cry foul?”  Harry frowned, as he examined the layout of the region.  Habitable systems were rare, notwithstanding the unusual bounty caused by the particular qualities of these twin suns. 

 

“First landfall outside the system,” Janeway said.  “They argued for a shared approach; the Talari wouldn’t hear of it and started settling all five worlds.  The Denarians declared the colonies illegal and things quickly soured, to the point of a cold war and military mobilization.  But the real conflict was ignited by this little guy here.  I don’t blame you for overlooking it.”

 

She leaned over the table and pointed at a tiny object that moved around both suns in a slightly wobbly elliptical orbit, between the two suns and the closer of the two gas giants.

 

“A rogue planetoid, that managed to get trapped by the gravity of _both_ stars.  It got pulled into this wide orbit, almost like one of Earth’s comets, by some freak confluence of gravity and fate.  And unlike the gas giants, it _was_ of interest.  Computer, close in on and show composition of Stellar Object XT-3476.”

 

The projection zoomed in on the small planetoid.  In rapid succession, different sections lit up while lines of text appeared on the side of the projection.  B’Elanna gave a little gasp.

 

“We should have run across something like that in the Delta Quadrant.”

 

According to the analysis provided, the asteroid’s core was a blend of duranium and dilithium ore; the airless caves that riddled it like a Swiss cheese were filled with dilithium, neo-dilithium and benomite crystals, formed in near-ideal conditions.  And if that were not enough, veins of latinum, bernicium and other precious metals shot through the outer mantle.  The list didn’t end there.

 

Tom whistled.  “The celestial jackpot,” he muttered to himself.  “Inter-stellar travel on the hoof, plus the money to pay someone to build the ships.”

 

Baytart added, more to himself than anyone around the table, “Happy Ferengi Christmas.”

 

“Indeed,” Janeway agreed, taking the various observations in stride.  “Not only that, but all this bounty is easily -- and equally -- accessible to both cultures in the course of its orbit.”

 

She paused, and her jaw clenched.  “The first shots in the Binary War were fired within a single day of the first ship – a small Denarian military runabout – landing on the planetoid.  The crew made the mistake of staking a claim on behalf of their government, and it got system-wide play.  A Talari cruiser that had been sent to explore it and was only a day behind the Denarians swooped in and took the crew hostage.  When the Denarians refused to retract their claim, the Talari publicly executed the crew.  The Denarians retaliated by attacking one of the ‘illegal’ Talari colonies a week later.  That was twenty-eight years ago.”

 

Tom’s voice was soft.  “And from there straight to Armageddon.  Which _you_ have been asked to sort out.”

 

“Yes.  It’s been kind of a slow-motion Armageddon, because neither side has the technology to allow for swift movement, despite the relatively small distances.  But what they’ve lacked in attack speed, they made up for in thoroughness.  Luckily, both sides have grown weary; their resources are running low, and for the first time in almost three decades the interest in peace seems to outweigh the willingness to keep fighting.”

 

Asil interjected.  “Given the difficulties for such bitter enemies to agree, a request for neutral, outside assistance is a logical step.”

 

Janeway nodded.  “Yes.  For obvious reasons, neither system is a candidate for membership in the Federation yet, but they are getting close to expanding up to its borders.  Peace in the sector is very much in our own interest.”

 

“Just one very practical question, Cap…  Admiral.”  Tom’s eyes carried a dangerous glint, as he posed a question to which he suspected he already knew the answer. 

 

“While you and the locals argue about the shape of the table for peace talks, who’ll be guarding Fort Knox?” __

Janeway gave her former helmsman a sharp glance, and nodded in appreciation of his ability to cut to the chase.  The two words she uttered dropped into the sudden silence like a sharpened blade.

 

“You are.”

 

 ________________________________

 

NOTE:  “ _Arbitre”_ is French for ‘referee’; also called ‘ _president(e) de jury’_ in fencing.  This individual presides over a match and decides, amid a web of rules and prohibited actions, when the action starts and stops, when time is up, and who should be awarded a hit when there is a doubt. 

 

As you may have figured out by now, the language of fencing is French; this makes things sound rather courteous, in an old-world-diplomacy kind of way.  Fencers like to think of themselves as polite, chivalrous and respectful -- when they’re not arguing with the judge or trying to ram their blade into the other guy’s vitals. 

 

 

 


	3. En Garde

“You’re kidding, right?”

 

“Captain?” 

 

Janeway’s voice was rimed with just a touch of frost.  No matter how much she appreciated Tom Paris’ particular brand of straightforwardness in the abstract, she found that after two years apart, she was no longer quite used to the challenge with which he could infuse a normally rhetorical question.  At least he had waited until they were back in the privacy of the ready room – a sign of maturity, she supposed – but she saw no need to encourage him.

 

But apparently, Tom’s indignant disbelief was beyond suppression, never mind any considerations of protocol.  He barreled on, heedless of the non-verbal warning she was transmitting with her glare.  He listed his objections, barely refraining from counting them down on his fingers one by one.

 

“These systems are emerging from a conflict that has cost millions of lives, displaced countless others, and devastated the better part of a planet.  Their forces may be slower to move than we are but they’re on edge, ignorant of ... of _civilized_ warfare, determined, and, let’s not forget, armed with a weapon we know very little about.  And Starfleet is sending a single vessel to guard the Holy Grail, the _very thing_ that all the fighting was about, while politicians argue about who gets to take home the spoils?  Am I the only one who thinks this is nuts?”

 

He shrugged, arms wide in notional surrender to the absurd. 

 

“I mean, whose bright idea _was_ this?”

 

“Mine, Tom.” 

 

He was momentarily rendered speechless.  But only momentarily.  Tom Paris was not one to be derailed for long, even when on a rant.  He knew as well as anyone who had served under Kathryn Janeway that she did not make tactical decisions rashly or without due regard to potential failure – well, not very often, and usually successfully.  She had not been away from the game long enough to have lost her edge. 

 

And so, with a speed that might have confounded an uninformed observer, Tom’s attitude changed from _sarcastic and cynical_ , to _skeptical but interested_.  He would keep an open mind, or at least try.  But he had to ask.

 

“Why _?_ ”

 

Kathryn frowned a little, forcibly reminding herself that her former pilot – and erstwhile ensign -- was now the Captain of the ship she was standing in, and as such in a position that entitled him to a response.  Besides, he sounded as if he genuinely wanted to know, despite the rawness of his earlier challenge.

 

Kathryn bought herself some time by heading back to the replicator for another cup of coffee.  A smile flashed across her face when the steaming cup of Kona she had requested materialized, and there was no corresponding clicking down of someone’s ration account.  She picked it up, inhaled the rich aroma and took a sip. 

 

She turned back to Tom and weighed her words carefully – as carefully as she had when she had convinced Alynna Nacheyev of the merits of her strategy, and of letting her use Voyager to carry it out.

 

“It’s quite simple, Tom – or as Tuvok would say, _quite logical_.  As you already figured out, if the planetoid were to be unprotected while the peace talks are ongoing, one side or the other could use the ceasefire to take it over.  If we allowed the parties to guard it themselves, the risk of somebody pulling the trigger for whatever reason is too great.”

 

Tom nodded.  “Yep – that much is obvious; hence my question.  Why negotiate for a share of the Grail if you can take the whole thing, while the other side is busy playing nice.  So yes, it needs to be watched.  Still doesn’t explain why guarding it with a single ship is a good idea though.  Quite the contrary.”

 

Kathryn sighed.  Reasonable questions, she knew, and she had answered them all before.

 

“First off, you won’t _be_ alone.  There will be two Starfleet vessels; Voyager will be joined by another ship.  I’m awaiting confirmation from the admiralty whether it will be the Gettysburg or the Al Bataani.  They are both in the region already, investigating an emerging subspace phenomenon.”

 

Kathryn smiled ruefully.  “Of course, I’d prefer the Al Bataani for sentimental reasons, but she has apparently suffered some hull damage in a freak asteoroid field.  She may require dry dock time at Deep Space Seven.  I should receive confirmation by tonight.”

 

“Well, I _suppose_ two is better than one,” Tom remarked drily.  The ‘ _if not by much’_ he bit off unspoken hung in the air between them.

 

Kathryn ignored him, and proceeded with her well-rehearsed explanation.

 

“Both the Denarians and the Talari forces, as you noted, are on edge, and paranoid.  If Starfleet went in with an armada, both sides would feel threatened, each assuming we’re on the other’s side.  The Federation will need to be seen as an honest broker without an agenda of its own – other than peace and reconciliation.  So we have to go in small, while at the same time sending the message that attempts to take the planetoid would bring the Federation into the mix.  That’s the strategy.  Non-threatening, but effective.  Smart deployment.”

 

She paused for a bit, recognizing the lack of conviction on Tom’s face for what it was.

 

Hardly a fool, and always up for a good argument – especially when the ship and crew he cared about were concerned -- he took advantage of the brief break in her explanation. 

 

“Would an attack _really_ bring in the Federation?  Or would it drive them away, to leave the binaries to muddle through another three decades of war?  Could go both ways, depending on who makes the calculation.”

 

She shrugged. 

 

“Regardless, whoever might consider attacking Fleet vessels will have to overcome formidable, if not insurmountable odds.  Both the binary fleets are equipped and trained really only for space-to-ground action.  Neither has a lot of experience in space combat, something Voyager and her crew are pretty well unrivalled at within Starfleet.  Attacking you, or a Starfleet vessel in your company, would be suicide.”

 

She lifted her cup in silent salute to her former crew, before continuing to pitch her case to her still-skeptical audience of one. 

 

“The Gettysburg has proven its mettle in other tactically complex missions, as has the Al Bataani.  Either would be a good complement to Voyager.  Essentially, I am counting on a Starfleet presence that is non-threatening and nimble, but with big tactical capability and experience.  It should suffice, in the context of a diplomatic mission requested by both sides, and against potential enemies that are unsophisticated and slow."

 

"But le't not forget well-armed and ruthless,” Tom couldn’t help himself, and straightened up defiantly at the glare he received in response.   “I take your point, and I even see the logic behind the strategy – almost, anyway.  That doesn’t mean I have to like it.” 





 

Tom slapped the side of his chair with the palms of both hands, and got up, an air of resignation in his tone.  He had tried, and was fresh out of ammunition.  Not an original experience with Kathryn Janeway, he considered not without a certain amount of amusement.

 

“I guess we’ll be spending our travel time to the Antarean sector doing battle drills.  It’s been a while.”

 

There were a few things he would have wanted to add, but decided to hold his counsel.  Maybe those extra pips really _did_ come with some sort of filter that made it harder to stick your foot in your mouth?  He’d have to ask his father.

 

Kathryn scrutinized his face and body for signs of that Tom Paris defiance she remembered so well – the clenched jaw, the tightened shoulders.  Finding neither, she allowed herself a small smile, free of triumph but filled with confidence.

 

“It will work out, Tom.  I know it will.”

 

He returned and held her gaze solemnly.

 

“Yeah.  I hope you’re right, and I’m wrong.  But we need to get on with departure protocols.  Plus I’ll have to go over crew rotations with Harry, now that we know our mission.” 

 

Realizing his words sounded perhaps too much like a dismissal, especially in light of the discussion that had preceded it, Tom added a smile of his own. 

 

“I trust you don’t need me to tell you where everything is on the ship.  Consider it yours, as it’s always been -- including all the coffee you can replicate and that the Doc will let you have.  And -- welcome back, _Captain_.”

 

Kathryn held his gaze for a bit, ready to take the peace offering – even as she didn’t want to admit to it being necessary. 

 

“Thanks, Tom.  I’m sure everything will work out just fine.  In the meantime, I think I’ll swing by the nursery and say hello to my goddaughter, if you don’t mind.  _Before_ I pay a visit to the Doctor and get his views on my nutritional habits.”

 

…..

 

“It’s the Gettysburg we’re getting as our sidekick.  I just got word from Starfleet Command.  Constellation class, over twenty-five years of service.  Bit of a clunker, in my book, not much use in a fight.  Even less as an insurance policy.”

 

Tom frowned at the terminal in his ready room as he flipped it over so Harry could see the specs of the ship Starfleet was dispatching to back them up.  Or was it Voyager that was supposed to be backing up the Gettysburg?  He hoped that whatever emergency had kept Nacheyev from providing them with clearer mission parameters had been worth it; the uncertainty she’d left him with sure sucked.

 

“Know anything more about her current Captain than I do?  Name’s Brin Gallagher.”

 

He directed a questioning gaze at his XO, who had entered carrying a small pile of PADDs and was now standing beside him, peering at the screen while trying to balance his load.  Harry shrugged, and cursed when the motion caused one of them to slide out of his grip and clatter on the floor. 

 

“You were there when Riker told us about Jameson, and the things he did with her when she was new.  She’s had several captains since then, but I don’t know anything about Gallagher.  Except I think he’s senior to you by a couple of years.”

 

Tom sighed.  “Right.  Great.  Everybody’s senior to me at this point, Har.  I don’t even think there’s been another captaincy awarded since I got mine.”

 

“Sensitive?  About rank?  _You_?  Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend’s mind _this_ time?”

 

“I’m serious, Harry.  My problem is, Nacheyev didn’t make it very clear as to who will run the Starfleet side of the show if things with the Captain’s diplomatic mission go sideways.  I mean, you were there.  She said I have _command and control over Voyager_.  What does that even mean in this situation?”

 

“Didn’t they teach you that at Jim Kirk?  No one controls the crew but you, and you have command over what we do from the strategic standpoint.  It means you get to decide what to do if we’re attacked, Tom.”

 

“I know what command and control means _in theory_.  But what the hell does it mean in practice, when there are two Starfleet vessels, I’m the _junior_ Captain, Voyager is the smaller ship. _and_ there’s an Admiral around who’s in charge of the overall mission objective?  If I think the safe course is to retreat, will Gallagher go?  If he asks me to help him carry out an attack I know to be stupid, do I have to go along?  And if Janeway orders us both to do something for the sake of diplomacy -- then what?  Sorting that kind of crap out is just the thing I’m lousy at.  I just know I’m going to lose _control_ over my big mouth, and then bye, bye _command_.”

 

He rubbed his face with both hands.  “Shit, Harry, apart from all that, this whole mission has disaster written all over it.  I can just _smell_ it.  From what I’ve seen, the Binary War was very much like the kind of conflicts they had on Earth in the late 20th century.  Brother against brother, neighbour against neighbour.  People able and willing to hit just where they know it hurts the most.  Those kinds of conflicts never end cleanly, with someone just laying down the sword.  Someone inevitably wants to have the last word.”

 

“You’re paranoid,” Harry said firmly.  “Both sides must want this to be over, or they wouldn’t have called in the Federation.  And Captain … Admiral Janeway knows what she’s doing.  She’s negotiated peace deals with the Hirogen and the Borg, remember?”

“I know what she’s capable of.  And I also remember how some of those peace deals ended up, in case _you_ forgot.  But I’m not sure any of us know what the Denarians and the Talari are capable of, especially after what they’ve been doing to each other.”

 

Tom shook his head as if to clear it of unpleasant thoughts.  “I hope you’re right, Har.  Now, let’s see what else we have to do.  You sure you brought enough PADDs?”

 

Harry shrugged.  “Just making sure I can answer all your questions, _Captain.”_  

 

Tom refrained from rolling his eyes.  “So instead of Ensign Eager I get Commander Competent now, is that it?  Fine.  Let’s get on with it.  Departure status?”

 

“McKinley has cleared docking release for noon sharp, forty-five minutes from now.”

 

They spent a few minutes cross-checking the status of various departments and an array of systems diagnostics.  The easy exchange almost convinced Tom, despite his earlier misgivings, that at the very they might actually get away with running this ship, between the two of them – especially with Harry’s attention to detail.  Tom had never considered himself a detail person (he made exceptions when it came to shuttle design and holo-programming), and had found keeping track of mundane things such as staff rotations and supplies the bane of his existence during his stint as XO on the Enterprise.  Unconsciously stroking the four pips on his collar, he was perfectly happy to delegate this kind of stuff to someone else.

 

 “Last thing, but by no means the least.  Assume Chell’s all set up for that do in the mess hall?”

 

Harry grinned.  “Yep.  He’s even made a small tray of leola root nibbles, for nostalgia’s sake.”

 

Tom pulled a face.  “Don’t tell me how, or why, he managed to replicate the stuff.  I’ll have to ask B’Elanna to erase the file.”

 

…..

 

 

Some four weeks later, the binary suns of Denaros and Talar shone bluish and yellow, respectively, in the view screen when Baytart took Voyager out of warp in the Antarean sector.

 

“Look pretty innocent from this distance, don’t they?”  Tom asked Janeway, who had been offered – and accepted – Harry’s seat for their arrival in the system.

 

“All systems do, Tom.”  She had spent much of her time in her quarters, preparing for negotiations that she knew would be as difficult as they were important. 

 

“Mr. Baytart, please bring the ship to a full stop, equidistant to the two suns.”

 

If Tom noticed the command emanating from beside him he gave no sign of it, and Baytart did not question the familiar voice.

 

“Full stop,” he confirmed.

 

“Lieutenant Asil, any sign of the Gettysburg?”  Tom turned to his ops officer.

 

“According to their latest subspace communication, we can expect her to arrive at our coordinates in one hour and thirty-eight minutes.”

 

“Good, that gives me time to hail my contacts,” Janeway said.  “Mind if I use your ready room, Captain?”

 

Tom shrugged.  “Make yourself at home.  I want to run another battle drill anyway, now that we’re in theatre.”

 

If Janeway was in any way bothered by his rather pointed phrasing, she hid it well.  Casting him only a short, meaningful look – which he chose to interpret as reluctant approval -- she headed into her former sanctuary without another word.

 

Tom gazed after her thoughtfully.  His former Captain had been rather closed-mouthed about her approach to the forthcoming negotiations, preferring to bury herself in briefing notes and studies in her quarters.  She had emerged only for meals, some private dinners – spent mostly gossiping about the more colourful persons at Starfleet Headquarters, or reminiscing about past adventures with Voyager and her crew -- and the occasional frolic with Miral and Baby Tommy.  Whether her reticence was because secrecy was necessary to her mission, or whether it was simply her preferred _modus operandi_ in her new line of work, he had no idea.

 

Tom shrugged and turned to the command console beside his chair.  There was work to be done. 

 

In the absence of the random perils that seemed to have dogged their every step in the Delta Quadrant, and haunted still by what he had seen of the effects of Talarian weaponry, Tom had kept Harry and the crew on their toes by running almost daily drills.  Procedures had ranged from emergency evacs to ship-wide decontamination, radiation shielding and mass transports (to and off the ship).  The auxiliary battle bridge, used rather infrequently by then-Captain Janeway, had never functioned more smoothly than it had under the keen attention of Mike Ayala and his deputy, Arno Schmidt.

 

An hour later, the latest simulation was interrupted by Asil’s clipped voice.

 

“Captain, long-range sensors are picking up a major spatial rift approximately five light years off Talar, consistent with the phenomenon the Gettysburg has been investigating.”

 

She tapped in a few additional commands, then raised her eyebrows in the Vulcan approximation of supreme puzzlement. 

 

“What is interesting to note is that from this distance, the phenomenon appears to be bending light.  I am unable to detect the Gettysburg with our instruments, despite our knowledge of her precise coordinates.  The tensions between subspace and normal space appear to be producing a secondary cloaking effect.”

 

“Really?” 

 

Both Captain and First Officer headed to the ops console as if drawn there by a single tractor beam.  Harry still considered Ops his domain and was keen on seeing the readings for their own sake; Tom, for his part, was as intrigued by the tactical possibilities of the phenomenon as he was by its possible negative impact on flight control.  They were still clustered around the console when the formal hail from the Gettysburg arrived.

 

“Gettysburg to Voyager, Brin Gallagher here.  We’ll be joining you shortly.  Looking forward to seeing some new faces after the weeks we spent out here.  You got the champagne on ice yet?”

 

Tom grinned; he found himself liking the man already.  “Nice to meet you, Captain.  Tom Paris.  We don’t do fizzy stuff here, but if I can interest you in a nice South African merlot, I know just the place.  And I’d like to chat about that new nebula you’ve been investigating.  It seems to be having some interesting properties.”

 

“Sounds like a trade -- I’ve always wanted to see your ship.  Never managed to when she was grounded; just didn’t seem right.  Ship like that needs to be seen in space.”

 

A dinner meeting for the senior officers and Janeway was quickly arranged, and the Gettysburg signed off.

 

“Seems like a nice enough guy,” Tom remarked to Harry, before heading to his ready room to pass the news of the impending rendezvous to the Admiral. 

 

What he saw took him slightly by surprise.  Even with her back still turned to him, he knew that Janeway was glaring at the screen where she had been working.  She hit the desk with both hands, emitting a kind of frustrated growl, followed by a hearty “Damn!”

 

Tom cleared his throat to announce his arrival.  “Problems?”

 

Janeway swiveled her chair around, and grimaced at him.

 

“Try as I may, my Talari contacts will _not_ allow me to link them into conference with the Denarians.  And the Denarians don’t want to talk to me on a comm channel without the Talari being present.  And that’s just to discuss where we should start negotiations, and how many participants each side should bring.”

 

“I see.  The classic standoff.  So what are you going to do?  Shuttle diplomacy?”

 

She glared at him.  “If I didn’t know you any better, Tom Paris, I’d keelhaul you for that.  But yes, that’s exactly what I’ll have to do.  Take a shuttle to both Denaros and Talar.  In person, one at a time, and talk them into meeting face-to-face.”

 

“Shouldn’t this kind of basic arrangement been usefully made, _before_ the Federation sent out the high-priced help?”  Tom asked incredulously.  “I thought you were going in there to _mediate_ negotiations, not to set them up from the ground floor.”

 

Kathryn got up from her chair and started pacing.  He watched her go back and forth, across the room and back, hands on her hips until she finally stopped with her back to him in front of the observation window.

 

“Ordinarily, yes.  But this operation … it’s a bit different.  You see, we’ve received separate calls for assistance; one from Denaros, and the other from Talar.  They both know that the other has contacted the Federation, but what we haven’t got is a _joint_ _decision_ to let us steer an actual peace process.”

 

Tom felt his jaw dropping.  “So they haven’t … they haven’t actually _agreed_ to your doing this?”

 

“In principle, they have.  But you have to understand, after almost three decades of brutal war, there are a lot of sensitivities to sitting down with the other side, so there haven’t been any formal announcements.”

 

“Or, it would seem, any formal decisions as to how this should all play out.”

 

Kathryn sighed.  “The principle of quiet diplomacy is to allow both sides to save face, not to be seen to be ready to surrender or be bullied by an outside force.  Kid gloves, low visibility, always let them believe that whatever happens was their idea.”

 

Tom shook his head.  “Well, I’m sure glad you’re doing this, and not me, Admiral.  Smiling politely in the face of boneheaded obstreperousness isn’t exactly my forte.” 

 

He caught himself, remembering who he was speaking to.  “Wait a minute.  It isn’t exactly yours, either, as I recall.  Aren’t you the one who said that _sometimes diplomacy requires a little sabre rattling_?”

 

“That was in the Delta Quadrant, Tom.”

 

“Ah.  Well.  That clears it up, then.” 

 

“I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your tendency towards smart-ass remarks, _Captain_ Paris.” __

He gave a little shrug that he hoped she would interpret as an apology, but he wasn’t quite done yet.  The sudden revelation about how little of their mission was actually pre-planned had shaken him a little.

 

“If there aren’t any arrangements made for actual negotiations, I assume you’ll be looking for a neutral place to get them to come to?  Something like, oh, I don’t know.  A Federation starship?” 

 

Janeway gave her erstwhile helmsman a speculative look.

 

“The thought had occurred.  I assume you’re not keen on volunteering Voyager?”

 

“Volunteer?  Not really.  Prepared to serve?  I guess so.  Lord knows this ship has seen its share of diplomatic or other gatherings, ranging from the tedious to the … extremely odd.”

 

She snorted.  “Hasn’t it just.  But don’t worry, I was thinking of using the Gettysburg, if I can get the parties to agree.  She’s bigger, and I doubt _her_ Captain has given up his private dining room to a series of chefs of dubious qualifications.  We’ll need a place like that, assuming we can’t just occupy your or Gallagher’s briefing room -- or the holodecks -- for what may be several weeks.”

 

Tom felt himself cringe a little at the idea of having his ship hang idle in space while politicians indulged in debates, but he hid it well.  Hadn’t Will Riker warned him that being a Captain entailed long stretches of absolute tedium?

 

“As you wish, Admiral.  We’re at your service.  As always.”

 

There was something else in Janeway’s eyes though, something that made him pause.

 

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

 

Kathryn took a deep breath.

 

“I want you to come with me to Denaros and Talar for the opening round, Tom.  On the Flyer.”

 

“Uh-huh.”  Tom was immensely proud of the straight face he managed to maintain, even at that.  “To do … what, exactly?” 

 

She frowned a little at the absence of a facial expression in the man standing across from her, his arms crossed defensively in front of his chest now.  Tom Paris was impossible to read sometimes – even if at other times, his face could be an open book.  When he wanted it to be.

 

“I need a Starfleet uniform with a respectable number of pips, I need a pilot, and more specifically, I need an adviser.  Someone with your ability to cut through layers of obfuscation and see to the core of an issue.”

 

“An adviser?  Me?”  Tom’s genuine bafflement would not be suppressed now.  “To tell you the truth, I’d been wondering why you didn’t bring an assistant with you.  Any high-level envoy I’ve ever met travelled with a minion or three.”

 

Kathryn rolled her eyes.  “They _did_ give me an EA.  Hayes swore up and down that she was the best thing since replicators.”

 

“And?”

 

“She’s a very competent office manager, who makes sure that I get to transporter pads on time and have all my briefing PADDs with me.”

 

“Ah.”  Tom nodded, understanding perfectly.

 

“You guys would have chewed her up and spat her out.”

 

He chuckled.  “I always thought we were a welcoming and inclusive bunch on this ship.  Are we really that bad?”

 

“No.  You’re that _good_.  You would have scared the poor thing witless.”

 

“Glad we cleared that up.  Now assuming I agree to leave my ship in the middle of a war zone, what exactly is it you want me to do after I fly you there?  Participate?  Take notes?  Whisper in your ear?  Keep you in coffee?”

 

Kathryn glared at him, but a certain fondness lurked in her eyes as she did so.

 

“Whisper in my ears, mostly.  Do what you do best, challenge whatever they tell me is _acquired wisdom, foolproof or the god given truth_.  Break logjams when they stop listening to me.”

 

She considered him carefully, then broke into a huge grin. 

 

“ _And_ keep me in coffee.”

 

______________________________________________________ 

 

AN:  “ _En Garde”_ isthe call for fencers to stop fidgeting with their equipment, put on their masks, and take their places.  The last moment of quiet, before the judge calls for action and the blades start their first, tentative tac-tac-tac.

 

 


	4. Allez

Both Voyager and the Gettysburg had settled into their respective orbits around the small, as-yet nameless, planetoid whose presence in the binary system had escalated the hostilities between its two cultures into near-total war.

 

“Doesn’t look like much from here,” Harry mused as Asil pulled the rogue body up on the main view screen.  “Just a hunk of rock.”

 

“Contrary to its unassuming visual properties, Commander, it contains the ninth-largest cumulative depository of valuable ore and commercial-grade minerals ever discovered,” the Chief Ops Officer informed his XO, and those present on the bridge in general.  “The second-largest, were one to calculate exploitable minerals per cubic foot of planetary mass.  The only comparable body found to have more …”

 

“Fascinating,” Tom interrupted Asil’s recital, politely but resolutely.  “But I’m sure that Admiral Janeway is aware of the details from her briefing materials.  What I would like to know, though, is whether or not our long-range sensors are affected by the subspace anomaly, and whether it could impede our ability to detect incoming traffic.”

 

Janeway gave him an amused glance. 

 

“Hiding behind me to escape another Vulcan lecture?” she whispered to Tom as she leaned over from the First Officer’s chair, which she had happily made her own following Harry’s generous offer.  “Clever, Captain, very clever.  We’ll turn you into a diplomat yet.”

 

“Negative, sir,” Asil confirmed, oblivious to the amused interplay between her superior officers.  “We are now sufficiently far removed from the anomaly that the effects we observed when we rendezvoused with the Gettysburg are no longer relevant.”

 

“Good,” Tom replied.  “Glad to hear it.  But do keep an eye on the thing and what it does to our instruments; Gallagher says it is expanding at an unpredictable rate.” 

 

Turning to Janeway, he said, “Ready, Admiral?”

 

“Whenever you are, Captain.  I’ve been looking forward to being back on the one and only Delta Flyer.”

 

…..

 

The Flyer’s descent into the atmosphere of Denaros was as smooth as any other approach Janeway remembered, and she congratulated herself once more on her idea to ask Tom to pilot this, of all the shuttles onboard. 

 

“I had forgotten how beautiful she is,” she remarked, lightly patting the console before her.  “And you’ve kept her in good shape.”  
  


“I happen to know a first-rate engineer,” Tom retorted, albeit with little of his customary humour now.  He was supremely conscious of the fact that Kathryn had used the prospect of a spot of flying to get him to agree to leave _Voyager_ despite his misgivings, and was a bit resentful that she didn’t seem to feel in the least guilty about it.  Well, at least with Harry in charge and Asil to back him up, the ship would be in reasonably good hands for the next few hours.

 

He adjusted the instruments for atmospheric flight and entered the approach coordinates provided by the Denarian authorities for their landing site at the capital, Takana.

 

“Whoa.  What by the song of the Pleiades is _that_?” 

 

Arno Schmidt’s voice at the secondary tactical station bore a mixture of awe and horror as the view screen filled with the sight Tom had been dreading:  Kyven, the lost island continent of Denaros. 

 

_The place of ashes._

 

But what he and B’Elanna had seen on the small holoviewer in their quarters paled in comparison to the devastation that now stretched before them, filling the Flyer’s view screen with a relentless onslaught of … nothing.

 

An entire horizon of nothing.

 

Endless stretches of brown or blackened earth, covered and uncovered by swirling clouds of grey dust.  Geographical formations rendered barely distinguishable from one another in a monochromatic palette of death and destruction.  Not even charred trees remained; an eerie flatness had come to this part of Denaros, unrelieved by even the occasional hill or mountain. 

 

No evidence remained of humanoid habitation, or of the cities that had once graced the continent with their soaring spires, alight with the dreams and ambitions of their builders.  No outlines remained even to indicate where they might have been.  All that had been spared were the lakes and rivers that dotted and criss-crossed the wasteland, glinting with almost obscene blue cheer in the midday sun.

 

“That, Ensign, is the effect of the Scourge – the weapon the Talari created and used to bring the war to an end.  The thing that finally convinced the Denarians that rape and mutilation were getting old, and that peace talks might be a good thing.” 

 

Tom’s voice was grim and toneless, discouraging of further inquiries.  He exchanged brief glances with his Chief Security Officer, Mike Ayala, whom he had brought to remain on the Flyer in the event the unthinkable happened to their little delegation on the ground.  Ayala, a man of few words at the best of times, seemed to agree that this place required silence.  He simply shook his head, lack of comprehension clearly written across his face. 

 

If there was to be a sound here, Tom thought, it would be an elegiac tune or even just a few discordant notes, scratched out on a violin with broken strings, or the atonal wailing of a single voice.  Something mournful, to echo from empty hills before being lost to the wind.

 

Janeway, too, sat mute and stricken in her seat for the long minutes the Flyer spent gliding over the ash-strewn remnants of Kyven.  She found her voice when the greener shores of Denaros’ main landmass appeared, but even clearing her throat failed to remove the hoarseness.

 

“I suppose that’s why the Denarians dictated our entry point, and that flight path.  They wanted us to see this.”

 

“A picture can speak a thousand words,” Tom agreed softly as he prepared the Flyer for landing at the small space port in the centre of Denaros’ capital, Takana.

 

Janeway’s resolve was returning into her voice now, underlaid by something else.  Anger?

 

“Yes, and that same picture can also overwhelm you, influence the way you think, and close your mind to other possibilities.  There was no objective reason or need for us to approach Takana from that direction.  We were directed here for a purpose.  There are two sides to this story, and I will not be so easily manipulated by one of them.”

 

Tom shot her an undefinable look. 

 

“If you can move past _this_ , however you do it, you’re stronger than I am, Admiral.”

 

He refrained from adding what he felt so very tempted to say:  _But I suppose we always knew that._

 

…..

 

 

The small group that had met them appeared to be dominated by one particular individual, a male, whose face was wreathed in what Tom supposed was a smile -- although it could just as easily have been a baring of teeth, in a ritual challenge of some sort. 

 

It was clear that the Denarians’ contact with humans – or other races besides their enemies, the Talari -- had been limited, and they stared openly at Janeway, Tom and Arno Schmidt, the burly security officer.  Tom’s height seemed to cause them some discomfort, and he found himself being given a wide berth. 

 

The humans’ hair in particular seemed a source of something akin to morbid fascination.  Janeway’s auburn bob drew special attention, and Schmidt felt compelled to step forward and clear his throat in a rather threatening manner when one of their hosts reached out to touch it.  The man withdrew his hand quickly and dropped back a few steps, chastised if not embarrassed.

 

The Federation representatives were ushered inside a red-painted building with an ornate, blue-tiled roof; several of the tiles seemed damaged but it was clear from the proportions of the building that it was a ceremonial facility, designed to impress.  The vestibule held a sculpture that looked like it might have been a fountain, although there was no evidence of it having recently had water in it. 

 

The rooms and corridors were built on a Denarian scale; Tom had to duck repeatedly in order to avoid banging his head on various entranceways.  As he looked around, he could not help but notice that what there was of attempted splendor was faded and old.  There were cracks in two of the walls that no one had bothered to repair – earthquake?  seismic shocks from the destruction of Kyven?  --  and what textiles were in evidence seemed threadbare and worn.  After thirty years of war, Tom concluded, even the halls of power would take a beating.

 

The all-male Denarian delegation was headed by the Union’s President, a middle-aged professorial-looking man who introduced himself as Karon.  His hand formed a fist, which he placed over the part of his chest that in humans would contain the heart, and bowed slightly in what appeared to be the standard Denarian greeting.  The men surrounding him gave off, in their carefully measured bows, that particular air of superior disdain Tom had often found in those closely associated with power -- a look designed to project the bearer’s importance onto a world inclined to perceive only the leader.  He immediately decided to make a point of ignoring them to the extent possible, as he was certain they would him.

 

Only one other individual in the room struck Tom as worthy of attention, a man of clearly military bearing and an expression that struck him as vaguely sinister – cold eyes above a tightly clenched jaw.  How much of this impression was the result of the unfamiliar constellation of the Denarian facial features was difficult to tell, though, and Tom resolved to keep an open mind despite his unease in the man’s presence. 

 

Until he was introduced:  Sector Marshall Qorath, Supreme Commander of the Denarian Expeditionary Forces.

 

Tom tapped Janeway on the shoulder, and whispered in her ear, “I’m assuming that’s the guy who’d be ordering those raids on the Talari colonies.” 

 

She nodded her acknowledgment, and whispered back, “Starfleet intel agrees with you.  But unfortunately we have no choice as to who we talk to here.” 

 

Her attention went immediately into repeating the gestures of greeting they had just witnessed, with Tom and Schmidt following suit.  Finally, the formalities dispensed with, she and Tom were seated in the middle of a large rectangular table, while Schmidt and Cameron took up position behind them, backs to the wall, looking very alert -- hands on phasers, eyes continually and unobtrusively casting around the room.  The game was on.

 

Three interminable hours later, and despite his earlier grief for Denaros’ lost continent, Tom found himself overwhelmed by the desire to bash in the teeth of several of the Denarian politicians, who seemed to have polished and buffed the memory of the devastation into some form of empty, grandiose posturing for Janeway’s benefit.  If they had lost loved ones to the inferno, it did not show in their eyes, which reflected little emotion other than well-ingrained hatred for their enemy, the Talari.

 

But the bottom line – carefully and skillfully uncovered by Janeway as she peeled back one by one the layers of rehearsed rhetoric and rote talking points -- was this:  Denaros was willing to talk, but no Talari would be permitted to set foot on Denaros, on pain of death. 

 

And there it stood, until Janeway slid the PADD, on which she had apparently been doodling, in Tom’s direction, turning it ever so slightly so he could see the reading pane.

 

 _Time to offer that Starfleet vessel_ , it read.

 

Tom had remained silent throughout the previous hours, content – no, that wasn’t right -- _resigned_ to watch the slow-motion dance of words, and to listen to the endless litany of Talari perfidy.  Since he was well aware of Janeway’s idea of where the negotiations would take place, he had been content to wait and see how she would make it happen.

 

Now he knew, and it took all of Will Riker’s lectures about poker faces to keep him from snorting in appreciation of her tactics.  _Not a professional diplomat, my ass._

 

He leaned back casually and took a sip of water; even an amateur would know that it wouldn’t do to take action immediately.  Someone might have spotted him glancing at the PADD and deduce that he was receiving instructions.  He made a show of listening to a few more repetitive and unconstructive interventions, a re-run of the theme how equally inappropriate it would be for a delegation of Denarians to go to Talar, as it would be for any living Talari to set foot on Denaros.

 

Finally, when he decided that enough time had passed and he couldn’t stand the bullshit any longer, the Captain of Voyager put on his best blue-eyed, blonde pilot mien and, in an utterly disingenuous stage whisper, made the suggestion Janeway obviously felt could not come from her directly.

 

“Couldn’t Voyager serve as neutral ground, Admiral?”  He knew she wanted the Gettysburg, but leaving some room for additional negotiation didn’t seem like a bad idea. 

 

Janeway shot him a grateful look, and picked up the ball, all hesitant surprise.

 

“What an interesting suggestion, Captain!  What about it, gentlemen?  That could be the answer we have been looking for.  And of course, I know Voyager well, from a previous mission.  She would be perfect.”

 

Now, Tom Paris considered himself a reluctant and mediocre diplomat, but he _knew_ he was a pretty good gambling man – some of his friends, like a certain Talaxian former chef, might even have called him a promising con artist.  On Voyager, he had rejoiced in a long and clandestine – not to mention lucrative – career of getting people to part with their rations, and once thing he had learned with absolute certainty: a sure thing inevitably arouses suspicion.  The bauble most securely grabbed is always the one that seems to be about to be snatched away …

 

“On the other hand, Admiral, I’m not sure that either of our ships can accommodate two delegations of this size. “ 

 

He gestured vaguely around the room, and the two dozen or so functionaries. 

 

“And besides, based on what I’ve heard here, the Talari will almost certainly refuse the idea.  I’m sorry I even mentioned it.”

 

Janeway opened her mouth for a fraction of a second, but whatever she was planning on saying was forestalled by the President, who glared at Tom and his audacity to speak out against what had already become a formal proposal of the Federation negotiator.  His response made it clear that he was not responding to a mere minion.

 

“A wise solution, Admiral.  I am sure we can make an acceptable proposal concerning the size of our delegation, despite your …. assistant’s … misgivings.  Of course, Voyager may not be the ideal ship.  And as for our Talari enemies …”

 

And so it went, until Denaros sank below the horizon in a ball of blue fire and Tom was certain that his eyeballs would roll back into his head, where they would turn into one of Neelix’s gelatinous, leola-infused specialties and melt his brain.

 

…..

 

The main difference between the Denarians and the Talari, to Tom’s anthropologically untrained eye, was that the Talari skin tone tended a little more to the greenish, and their eyes seemed to come only in varying shades of grey.  As far as he could tell, there was a bigger genetic difference between him and Harry Kim, not to mention between himself and his wife.

 

But maybe there was a point in that.  Weren’t the most vicious battles in human history fought between tribes and peoples that were virtually indistinguishable from one another, except in small manners of speech or slant of eye, noticeable only to themselves?  Or people that looked entirely the same, but disagreed on which slightly nuanced version of some holy book or other was The One To Be Followed, to the exclusion of all else?

 

Of course, any differences, real or imagined, could be infinitely exploited and exaggerated when the stakes were made of latinum, and even the most familiar face could be made to look alien when the masks of battle where put in place.

 

Negotiations with the Talari, on a world just one day away at warp six, proved little different in terms of the obstinacy of protocol. With one remarkable exception:  they wanted Janeway alone.  No accompaniment.  No security officers, no _aide de camp_.

 

“Just the envoy of the Federation.  That’s who we agreed to talk to.  That is the only person who will be admitted into the presence of the Supreme Talon, Naldar.”

 

The gaudily dressed protocol officer made his pronouncement without the slightest trace of an apology, not even bothering to put on the kind of supercilious smile one could hang personal resentment on.  It was what it was:  a statement of fact.

 

Janeway and Tom exchanged glances -- hers carefully neutral, his barely banking a fire of suspicion and anger.  She shook her head ever-so-slightly in warning, before he could give voice to his misgivings.

 

“If that is the only way to meet the Talon, I accept.  But my men will stay here on Talar.”

 

The representative of the Talon, the High Council of Talar, gave Tom, Schmidt and Cameron a measured look.  Up and down Tom’s tall figure the silvery eyes travelled, narrowing briefly at the sight of Tom’s phaser and the fingers curled slightly around it.  Schmidt’s slightly pugilistic stance likewise did not go unnoticed.

 

“Two may stay.  But they will be unarmed.”

 

Janeway put her hand on Tom’s arm to still him, and cast another warning glance, this time at Schmidt who had unconsciously dropped into a fighting stance.  She barely glanced over her shoulders.

 

“Allow me a moment with the Captain.”

 

The Talari official nodded curtly.

 

“Tom …” Janeway started to say.

 

“I don’t like it, and I’ve been made responsible for your safety, _Admiral_.  The only way I will agree to let you do this is if they let us have signals access.  Comms _and_ transporters, so we can get you out.  No dampeners, no blackouts.” 

 

He stared at her unblinking, blue eyes boring into grey.

 

Kathryn Janeway knew very well that Tom Paris had a major stubborn streak to match her own; she had, in fact, encountered it far more often than the single demotion she had given him in the Delta Quadrant would suggest.  But this time, she knew, he had both a point and the authority to make it stick.  Nonetheless she tried to glare at him on principle, only to feel the resolve in her eyes weaken at the genuine concern she saw in his. 

 

“Fine,” she grated, and turned back to the Talari.

 

“I accept your terms, provided my ship is permitted to remain in direct contact with me at all times.  We will send one of the men back.”  She nodded at Cameron, who tapped his comm badge and requested beam-out from Ayala on the Flyer.

 

The protocol officer inclined his head.  “Acceptable.  Understand that we mean you or your men no harm, Envoy.  Our rules are the result of … unhappy experiences.  Your men may visit our city while you hold council with the High Talon.”

 

…..

 

And so, an hour later, with Ayala and Cameron keeping watch from orbit, Tom Paris and Arno Schmidt wandered the streets of the Talari capital, Mykros.  A small coterie of officials was trailing discreetly behind them, ostensibly to ensure that they would not get lost.  Or, as Schmidt put it, “to make sure we don’t poke our noses in stuff we ain’t supposed to.” 

 

The city seemed functional, if painfully plain, with only the occasional grace note in the form of a small garden or a fountain to offer a momentary respite from the relentless, crumbling gray of the stone and the reddish, rusting metal buildings.  Tom checked with Ayala every five minutes or so, to ensure the line to Janeway remained open and the transporter lock intact. 

 

The further away from the state capitol they walked, the more run-down the streets and buildings appeared to get.  And then, one more corner turned, a wall rounded, and a sight stretched before them that made Tom swallow.  A sea of improvised dwellings, ranging from tents to metal structures barely held together by rivets and bad welds, dirt roads leaving a layer of greyish-brown dust everywhere.  At one end sat what appeared to be a number of derelict shuttles, left to rust where they had come to rest and converted into makeshift homes.

 

“Those‘ll get awfully hot during the summer,” Schmidt whispered, his voice hoarse at the memory of other metal walls, made furnaces in the Mokan sun.

 

Tom turned to one of the officials who were following them, and waved her to come closer.

 

“What is this place?” he asked softly, already knowing the answer.

 

“This is where those who were displaced by the Denarian raids on our colonies have come to be safe,” the woman said, her voice a curious mixture of resignation and anger.  But did he also detect a measure of contempt, at the weakness of those trapped here, in her eyes?

 

“How long have they been here?  I thought those raids happened years ago.  Shouldn’t some effort be made to reintegrate them into your society?”

 

“Some of the children who came in the early days have grown up here,” she replied, avoiding the second half of his question with shifting eyes.  “But the raids did not end for many turns of our sun.  New waves of refugees arrived, time after time.”

 

“Until the Scourge,” one of the other officials interjected fiercely.  “Those bloody murderers needed to be shown a lesson before they would finally stop preying on our most vulnerable.  Glory to Marshall Talith and her forces.”

 

_“Talith?”_

The molten continent of Denaros came with a name.  A name that tasted like ashes in Tom’s mouth.

 

He swallowed in reflexive revulsion, but his attention was soon caught by the scene before him.  The camp’s inhabitants of the camp moved around as if in slow motion, looking for a purpose among the scraps of what they had lost.  Many of the adult males Tom could see were missing limbs; the women’s heads were bowed, their eyes dead to memories not spoken. 

 

Dozens of children were sitting on the dirt roads, on crates or on boxes, staring listlessly at the large cooking instruments where their parents prepared what appeared to be communal meals.  Itself a primitive ritual, the stirring of large kettles should have been out of place in a society capable of space flight, yet to Tom seemed oddly appropriate as testimony to the cost of war.  Another decade or two, and once-proud Talar, like its crumbling sister world, would sink back into the middle ages – of that he had little doubt.

 

“Why is the camp so full, if some have been here for years?  Can’t you integrate them back into the Talari population?”

 

The younger of the female officials, whose name they had not been given, explained as she would to a child – although her words sounded carefully chosen, rehearsed. 

 

“They wish to remain here until they can return to their homes.  Moving back to the city would be to accept defeat.”

 

 _Ah, there it was._   The camp was a visible reminder of Denarian perfidy, designed to stoke enthusiasm for the war the Talari authorities still thought they could win.  A recruitment poster for the Talari defence forces was prominently displayed on one of the larger walls, probably the only employment option available to the refugees from the colonies.  Tom suppressed a shudder of distaste, and tried hard to swallow his anger.

 

But the children. 

 

The lack of hope in their eyes, an emptiness beyond despair, moved him more than he would have thought possible even a few years ago.  Tom could not help but compare what he saw here to the blue-eyed sparkle that greeted him every morning, when his own daughter flung herself on her parents’ bed, squealing for them to start the day and let it reveal its new wonders to her.  He doubted that any child here was ever eager to wake up.  What was there to learn?

 

“What …”  his voice failed him for a moment, and the woman looked up sharply.  “What do they do all day?”

 

Their escorts shrugged in unison.

 

“They wait.”

 

“For what?”  Schmidt’s voice was barely audible.

 

The female official turned to him, her voice schooled into a well-rehearsed enthusiasm.  “For the day when our glorious forces bring us the victory Talar deserves, and they can return to their homes.”

 

Tom rolled his eyes, and swore under his breath.  She had practically recited the slogan off the recruitment posters.

 

“There are no schools for them here?”

 

The male frowned at him.  “They learned what they needed to when they were driven from their homes.  Their parents will teach them the necessary skills.  The schools in the capital are full, and cannot absorb their numbers.”

 

Tom shook his head in disbelief.  So while they waited for some distant resolution to a conflict not of their making, the children sat -- with nothing to do but learn the lessons of hate.

 

An incongruous thought came to Tom’s mind.  It might not offer any solutions, but ….  He leaned down to Schmidt. 

 

“You play soccer, Arno?”

 

The ensign stared up at this apparent _non sequitur_ , not quite sure what to think of the sudden digression. 

 

“I’m German,” he shrugged, as if that offered a good enough explanation

.

 When he saw Tom’s uncomprehending stare, he elaborated somewhat more helpfully, “It’s in my DNA.    Every four years, when the Federation Cup comes around, the people in my part of Earth go nuts.  Like going home to spawn.  Me, I played on the street every night until dark.  Sometimes beyond, and then my Mom would haul me inside by my ears.”

 

Tom grinned in understanding, nodded, and tapped his comm badge.

 

“Paris to Ayala.  Mike, can you do me a favour?  Replicate a soccer ball, charge it to my account, and beam to my location?”

 

Long since used to odd requests coming from the man who was now his Captain, Ayala exchanged a quick glance with Cameron, shook his head only a token amount, and headed for the replicator.

 

“One soccer ball, please,” he said to the machine, polite as always and managing to keep the question mark out of his voice.  He had heard of the game, of course; apparently his ancestors used to be big on it decades ago.  But on the colonies where Mike Ayala had grown up, fields were for plowing, and there had been no time for games.  These days, on the holodeck, he preferred Parrissees Squares or Velocity, when he wasn’t sparring with members of his security team.

 

The computer’s voice shook him out of his brief reflections. 

 

“Specify Adidas, Nike, Slazenger, ChomBurton…”  _Chomburton?_    Ayala spat on the Flyer’s floor, certain its owner would forgive him.  _Did these bastards have their fingers in everything?_

 

“Adidas, or whatever the first one you said was.”

 

“Specify antique, modern, Pele, Jubal, World Cup edition, Olympic …”

 

Ayala rolled his eyes.  He was beginning to understand why the Captain regularly punched the replicator when he was asking for something plain and simple.

 

“Adidas, antique.  Circa …”  Well, it _was_ Tom Paris who was asking for this curio.  “Circa 1996.”

 

The sound the machine made when materializing the requested item was unlike anything Ayala had ever heard coming from it – a distinct _plop_ , followed by a thud.  No wait – that was the ball he’d ordered, rolling out of the replicator and falling on the floor, where it made a few intriguing little bounces before finally disappearing under the tactical console.

 

Ayala was beginning to see the appeal, even if he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what his Captain could possibly want with the thing.

 

He got down on his knees and retrieved it, cursing slightly when his fingers inevitably became wedged between the to of the ball and the bottom of the metal console cover.  Noting that five minutes had passed, he asked Cameron to check on Admiral Janeway’s bio signs, comm badge and transporter lock before heading to the transporter platform.  All clear, the response came.

 

Still shaking his head, a little more vigorously now, the big Lieutenant spent a couple of minutes trying to get the cursed object to refrain from rolling off the platform.  _How did the Captain manage to keep the Flyer so perfectly level?  Or did he?_ Next time Tom Paris operated the helm, he’d surreptitiously place a round object on a flat surface for a private little test ….  His task finally accomplished, Ayala practically lunged for the controls to commence dematerialization before the ball could change its mind again. __

On the dusty outskirts of the Talari capital, the tingle of the transport offered little warning given the size of the object that was being materialized.  And since it arrived at roughly the height of his comm badge, Tom didn’t quite manage to catch the ball as it practically popped out of thin air, and started bouncing on the arid field.

 

Their Talari escorts gave a little gasp of scandalized surprise and dismay.  Different sounds altogether emanated from among the small handful of children, whose eyes had been trained on the aliens for want of anything else to look.  Things materializing out of thin air were new; things that bounced, apparently, were too. Together, what they had seen was a wonder.

 

The squeals of astonishment quickly turned into expressions of awe, as Schmidt nonchalantly stepped up to the ball and started kicking it into the air, keeping it aloft for a minute or two while alternating between his foot, his chest, his knee and his head.  Finally he lobbed it to Tom, who did one or two fancy kicks himself before shooting it back to Schmidt.

 

It took less than a minute for the first child, a little girl with a fresh bruise across her cheek that her life on Talar included remnants of the violence the displaced had fled, to slide off the piece of old machinery she had been squatting on.  As she drew closer, Tom casually kicked the ball over in her direction, and made a face as if in apology. 

 

“Sorry – I missed.  Can you kick that back to me, please?” he asked plaintively.

 

An hour later, their uniform jackets and turtlenecks long since discarded, sweat staining their tank tops, an incipient sunburn reddening their shoulders and grey dust caking everything, Tom and Schmidt disentangled themselves from the swarm of children now clamouring for their attention and for the ball.  Immediately the shouts went up for the game to continue.

 

“Sorry, gang – we’ve got stuff to do.  But you know what – you can keep this.” 

 

He handed the ball to the little girl who had received his first kick, with a solemn bow.  Her face a study in stunned disbelief, she clutched the ball to her chest – a treasure beyond her wildest dreams.  The other children looked on, a little enviously, but Tom was pleased to see that no one made a move to take the ball from her.

 

“Let’s play some more!” one cried, and a grin split the little girl’s face as she bounced the ball – _her_ ball now – into the little crowd.  She would share her joy, such as it was.

 

“You think they’ll figure out how to play soccer without someone teaching them, sir?” Schmidt was huffing a little as he picked up his clothes and shook them, looking after the children who were ignoring them now in favour of the resurgent game.

 

“Nope.  But if we’re lucky, they’ll figure out how to _play_.  Something.  Anything.  And I’m sure eventually someone will come up with rules.  Ideally something that doesn’t include the _offside trap_.” 

 

Tom used his own jacket to wipe off his face and gave Schmidt a little glare, for trying to call him out when he had been in a perfect position to put the ball between the two crates that had served as goal posts.  _Offside, my ass._

 

“Never thought I’d be glad they made these things grey,” he mused as he looked at the smears on his uniform sleeve. 

 

“Tell you what, Arno.  Get Ayala to send down some more balls, while I have a chat with our hosts.  Hand them out among the kids as you see fit, but not just to the big ones.  Learning how to share could be a useful thing in these parts, and the kids at least seem to be ready for it.”

 

He turned to their escorts, who had taken up watch beside the improvised pitch, unsure of how to deal with the humans’ apparent descent into madness.  The male was watching the old fuel drums that had served as goal posts with distaste, while the older female stared at Tom’s now sweat-stained uniform distastefully. 

 

The younger of the two women, however, bore an expression of thoughtful respect as she informed Tom that discussions in the capitol appeared to be coming to a close and they should, in fact, head back to rejoin their Head of Delegation. 

 

“That was a good thing you did,” she whispered for Tom’s ears only, holding his eyes with hers for the barest of moments. 

 

As coincidence would have it, it was at that precise moment that both Tom’s and Schmidt’s comm badges chirped. 

 

“Janeway to away team, please return to the meeting point.  I believe we have a deal.“

 

…..

 

Good to his word, Tom handed Kathryn a cup of coffee almost as soon as they had boarded the Flyer. 

 

“I may only be a marginal success as an EA, especially when thwarted by higher forces, but a promise is a promise,” he said, before turning to replicate for himself and Schmidt the drink Picard had offered him a few weeks earlier.  “However late it may be fulfilled.”

 

Kathryn inhaled the rich aroma reverently.  “You kept my recipe!” 

 

“Colombian Supremo, half dark, half medium roast,” he nodded, before wrinkling his nose in distaste at the electrolyte-friendly concoction in his own hand.  He took a dutiful, healthful drink, and then grinned with a little malicious satisfaction at Schmidt’s mumbled comment about the natural relationship between soccer practice and beer.

 

“You’re still on duty, Ensign.  And I have it on the highest authority that this stuff is good for you.  So bottoms up – that’s an order.”

 

He turned to Janeway.

 

“So, what’s the deal?”

 

“The Talari will agree to meet with a delegation of four, the same as the Denarians.  Two principals and two _aides de camp_ for each side.  And I think we are over the hump about both sides not possibly being able to agree to the same thing:  I led the Talari to believe that the Denarians would kick up a fuss about limiting the delegation to such a small size.”

 

She raised her coffee cup to Tom in silent salute.

 

“So who’ll they be sending?”

 

Janeway could barely contain her enthusiasm.  Her grey eyes sparkled.

 

“Highest level.  The President, or Supreme Talon, himself -- Naldar.  The other is the commander-in-chief of their fleet.  A woman, reminds me a bit of Nacheyev.  Name of ...  Oh damn, I forget.”

 

She shook her head in frustration.

 

Tom’s hand, still holding the bottle, froze for a moment.  Slowly, deliberately, he raised it to his lips and took a careful sip before, with the barest ghost of a smile, speaking the name he had learned not so very long ago.

 

“Talith.”

 

 

______________________

 

NOTE: The referees’ command to “ _allez!_ ” (“go!”) signals the beginning of a match.  This is usually followed by a period of time where the fencers suss each other out, play with their opponent to figure out what distance they are comfortable keeping, their reach and their instinctive reactions.

 


	5. Attaque par la Gauche

As expected, even once they had settled on a Starfleet vessel as the appropriate venue, neither of the Parties would agree to negotiating anywhere near the home planet of the other.  With tact, finesse, and an innate ability to play one side against the other -- Tom would have called it Macchiavellian, but for his childhood determination to avoid using words he didn’t quite know how to spell -- Janeway managed to persuade both parties to meet orbiting the rogue planetoid. 

 

Since part of the Starfleet vessels’ task was to ensure that the conflict over Stellar Object XT-3476 -- nicknamed “Midas” by some bright spark on Icheb’s Astrometrics team -- would not reignite, the proposal was both a defensible compromise and a handy way of killing two birds with one stone.  Both Tom Paris and Bryn Gallagher approved readily. 

 

Given the distances involved and the greater speed capability of the Federation’s vessels, the Gettysburg had sent out shuttles to both systems to bring the dignitaries, while Voyager and her crew waited in orbit.  Two same-model shuttles, same number of crew aboard, same level of Starfleet officer in charge.  For Harry’s ears only, Tom expressed the fervent hope that the interior décor would be an equally putrid shade of mustard yellow for both.

And even if it meant a few weeks of boredom, Tom made no secret – at least not to B’Elanna and the Kims -- of the fact that he was glad that Admiral Janeway had chosen the Gettysburg to host the meetings between the Denarians and the Talari.

 

“You know, I don’t think I could keep a straight face with these war criminals onboard,” he said over dinner in his and B’Elanna’s quarters.  “I feel sorry for Gallagher.  Not only does he have to make nice to the woman who gave the orders to melt down a whole continent of civilians, but also to a guy who ordered and oversaw the whole-sale cleansing of several Talari colonies, using up-close-and personal methods like torture, rape and amputations.  The Cardassians have nothing on these people.  _Nothing._ ”

 

B’Elanna picked up her wine glass, tipping it to her husband in silent agreement. 

 

“Talith and Qorath.  What a pair.  May they rot in a hell of their own making.”  She swished the wine around in her mouth, as if to clear a particularly nasty taste, and swallowed.

 

Libby shook her head.  “I don’t understand how the Admiral agreed to having them on the delegations.  Why not stick to civilians?”

 

“No choice,” Harry said.  “They send who they send.  Besides, when there’s been war for such a long time, the civilians aren’t really in charge, no matter what they think.  If their respective fleets don’t agree with whatever deal gets hammered out, it won’t happen.  After twenty years of war, the military probably runs the place.  Remember the Vaadwaur, guys?”

 

This last question was directed at Tom and B’Elanna, eliciting a slight frown from his wife.

 

“The who?”

 

B’Elanna nodded.  “Wish I didn’t,” she said.  She turned to Libby, who she knew was still catching up on the details of seven years of shared past between her husband and his friends, and occasionally admitted to feeling a bit left out.

 

“The Vaadwaur were these specially bred soldiers, who basically restarted a war within five minutes of being woken up from cryogenic stasis.  And you couldn’t talk to them.  If there was any government that could have kept them in check, we didn’t come across it.  But I guess Harry’s right.  Janeway needs the military to buy into whatever she comes up with to get to peace, and they’ll only accept a deal if they’re at the table and see how it was arrived at.”

 

Tom was frowning now, obviously thinking things through -- an activity his wife still facetiously claimed gave her the willies when she saw him do it.

 

“Yep.  Starfleet’s been at the table in all major negotiations the Federation has carried out.  The one time they got left in the dark about some of the relevant backroom dealings, we got ourselves the Cardassian treaty.  My Dad once said Nacheyev is still not over that one, especially since Senior Command then also had to enforce it for years.  One of the reasons they now send out Fleeters like the Captain on diplomatic missions involving armed conflict -- Nacheyev squeezed the Federation for that concession.”

 

The ensuing silence was interrupted – perhaps mercifully – by a beep in Harry’s comm badge. 

 

“Baby monitor,” he said, to understanding nods around the table.  “Look’s like Tommy’s awake.  We better head back to our quarters.”

 

Dishes were deposited in the recycler, and goodbyes quickly said.  Tom followed Harry and Libby out into the corridor, heading towards the turbolift to make one of his late visits to the bridge.  He had taken to dropping on late Beta or early Gamma shifts ever since their departure from McKinley; B’Elanna had initially laughed at his rather vague explanation – “just checking to make sure”  -- but had quickly gotten used to this latest quirk of her husband’s. 

 

With Voyager stationary in space there wasn’t much activity on the bridge.  Coulthard, seated at the helm and tasked with nothing more than maintaining a stable orbit, seemed to be playing some kind of game on his console.  He looked up at Tom’s approach with a guilty expression on his face, blushed into the tips of his ears and quickly switched the display back to the ship’s current coordinates.

 

“Stay sharp, Ensign,” Tom said, mitigating the reprimand with a clap on the junior pilot’s shoulder.  “Believe me, I know that’s not always easy when nothing’s going on.  But we’re in a war zone here, and can’t afford to let our guard down.”

 

Tom turned to Rollins.  A perpetual Lieutenant, the man was as reliable as he was unambitious, and happy to be Voyager’s uncrowned King of Gamma Shift for an eighth year.  As always, he came to full attention when he felt his Captain’s eyes on him.  If he remembered the days when a pipless Tom Paris first appeared on Voyager’s bridge, uncertain where to stand and what to do with himself, he had never given any indication of it.

 

“Keep your eye on Coulthard and his console,” Tom said in a low voice.  “He’s got too much of my own pre-Janeway self in him.  Too sure of himself.”

 

Rollins nodded, all business.  “Aye, sir.  Will do.  We’re continuing with the scans.  No vessels in the vicinity, apart from the Gettysburg of course.”

 

“Good.  Let’s hope it stays that way.  We’ll be expecting company tomorrow, when the delegations arrive.  Should be small vessels, and they’ll be headed straight for the G’burg.  They’re not due till sometime during Alpha shift but if they show up early, get me up.”

 

“Understood.”

 

Tom looked around the bridge one more time before heading back to the turbolift.  _His_ bridge.  Funny, how suddenly he seemed to have developed such very … proprietary feelings about the place. 

 

Of course, if he thought about it, he had always considered it his, even when his place was behind the helm and others were issuing the orders.  And during the mission to the Snowflakes he had (slowly) gotten used to walking on the bridge and seeing crew and officers come to attention at his presence; certainly _they_ seemed convinced it was his bridge.

 

But this … this feeling … this was different.  And then it occurred to him:  Kathryn Janeway was onboard again. 

 

Onboard _his_ ship.

 

He shook his head, more surprised than angry at himself.  Was he turning into Neelix, bitten by the green-eyed devil of jealousy? Voyager was Kathryn’s ship as much as his, probably more.  He knew this.Had always known this.  Respected her claim.  So why did he suddenly feel as if he needed to stake one of his own?

 

Ghosts and shadows.  Maybe the rivalries of the Denarian system – no, _Denaros and Talar_ , he had to remember this – were getting to him, like some kind of poison gas creeping into his ship and thence into his head?

 

Rather than engaging the computer to operate the turbolift Tom punched in the manual command, perhaps a little harder than he needed to, and rolled his eyes at himself.

 

_Get over yourself, Paris._

 

He stepped out into the corridor, and headed home.

 

…..

 

 

Several days later, according to Janeway’s nightly reports, the Parties were no closer to any agreement – on anything, as far as Tom could tell – than they had been before one of them had ever contacted the Federation.  At least they were prepared to tolerate each other’s presence in the same room now, an enormous step up from the “proximity talks” Janeway had to engage in during the first week.

 

Knowing that the negotiations would be proceeding at a snail’s pace, Kathryn had decided that although – or rather _because --_ they were taking place on the Gettysburg, her home base would remain on Voyager.  Not only did the daily commute via transporter allow for a useful perception of distance between herself and the parties, but it also allowed her the occasional chance to kick off her shoes and vent her frustrations, without any danger of being overheard. 

 

This was such a night, she had informed Tom, peremptorily requesting his presence in her quarters – preferably carrying some non-replicated … refreshment.  No stranger to Janeway’s voice and its setting for “not-tired-as-much-as-exasperated”, he had brought one of his special South African reds – Nyere Vineyards, 2374 merlot -- from his and B’Elanna’s private stasis storage. 

 

“These are without any doubt the most stubborn, opinionated people I have ever come across,” she fumed, clutching her rapidly diminishing, deep-ruby prize in her quarters, like a drowning victim would at a plank in churning, blackened waters.

 

Tom, his long legs crossed in an effort to suppress the temptation to put them on the Admiral’s coffee table, snorted a little and pushed the bottle in her direction.  He privately thought that the warring parties’ ability to see the grand prize through any observation windows was perhaps more impediment than incentive to any fruitful outcome, but was prepared to bow to the Federation’s Chief Negotiator’s wisdom on that score.

 

“I suppose when you’re in the habit of characterizing someone as the incarnation of evil, it’s hard to look them in the eye and listen to what they have to say.  Kahless knows, I wouldn’t be able to make small talk with the Borg Queen.”

 

Looking at Kathryn through slightly veiled eyes, he added cautiously, “Guess having those war criminals in the room can’t help matters.”

 

Kathryn sighed.  “Actually, one of them is probablythe most sensible person in the room.  At least the military knows exactly where they’ll be if this fails, and have a personal stake.  It’s the politicians that insist on regurgitating past grievances until they foam at the mouth and I have to call a time-out.  It’s almost as if the feel they need to put on a show for the voters.”

 

She drained her glass.  “If something doesn’t happen soon, I don’t know what I can do it this.  I’m good, but let’s face it – I’m not a trained diplomat any more than you are, Tom.  I’ve just been forced into doing this on the fly for seven years, and gotten lucky a few times.”

 

Kathryn looked at her former helmsman, grateful at the ease between them that allowed her to confide in him now, as she once had been able to do with Chakotay. 

 

She missed having her former XO by her side more than she could say at times, even if he had distanced himself from her somewhat during their last year in the Delta Quadrant.  _After the Equinox_ ...

 

“If I’m honest, my instinct is to take the lot of them and bang their heads together.  What we need … is something to break the stalemate.  A new idea.  A game changer.  Anything.”

 

Tom winced, recalling the last time he himself had used that term. 

 

_Game changer._

“Be careful what you wish for, Admiral,” he said.  “But I take your point.  If I come up with a bright idea, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

He took a sip of his wine, conscious of the time and the fact that he had promised Miral a bedtime story.  _The Wind in the Willows_ was her current favourite, and there was certainly something to be said for the idea of messing around in boats – even if you only got to do it inside your own head.  But there were still a couple of questions he wanted to ask, since Janeway seemed to be in a confessing mood.

 

“How’s Gallagher and his crew?”

 

“Holding up.  I’m trying to keep them mostly out of things, except for lunches in the Captain’s dining room, which the senior officers tend to get roped into.  Alternating between the parties, _and_ the officers.”

 

The absence of a formal dining room on Voyager had been the major reason why Janeway was holding her ‘talks’ on the Gettysburg.  Not for the first time, Tom raised a private toast to Neelix, who had dismantled the Captain’s private dining room to create his – now Chell’s – kitchen during Voyager’s early days in the Delta Quadrant.  You just never knew how long or how far the ripples of a given decision might reach …

 

He carefully schooled his features back from repressed gloating into professional interest mode.

 

 “Any major issues with their … guests so far?”

 

Kathryn shrugged.  “Just the usual.  Quarters too hot or too cold, beds too hard or too soft, depending who’s doing the complaining.  They never seem to be able to get it just right …  Luckily, the delegations are housed quite far apart from each other.”

 

Kathryn failed to suppress a throaty chuckle now, and gripped Tom’s arm with her hand.  She had always been tactile, especially with her former helmsman and First Officer, and he found himself unexpectedly reveling in the familiar, but increasingly rare, touch.

 

“Imagine this, Tom.  Joss, their security chief, actually had to work out a turbolift schedule, down to the microsecond, after one particularly nasty incident where Qorath and Talith almost ended up on the same one.”

 

Tom snorted.  Will Riker had told him a few war stories about the need to keep hostile delegations apart, lest bodies start littering the corridors.  The jokes about disposing of the ‘political fallout’ had been rather black that day …  he couldn’t resist.

 

“The cutting edge of diplomacy: How to keep your guests from slitting each other’s throat.” 

 

Kathryn gave him a mock-frown, and for a moment they held each others eyes, brimming with laughter at the ridiculous image conjured up by murderous ambassadors sneaking down ill-lit corridors, ceremonial daggers raised high above flowing robes.

 

Tom sobered first.

 

“I suppose for them, riding the turbolift with the other wouldn’t be much different from asking B’Elanna to get into a shuttle with Crell Moset,” he said softly.

 

Kathryn sighed.  “Indeed.  But every day, we’re back to square one.  Neither of them have the slightest interest in reconciling differences, except on their own terms.  The new definition of compromise:  get everything you want, give away nothing.”

 

She set down her glass, the fatigue etched into her face becoming increasingly hard to conceal. 

 

“Well, don’t let me keep you any longer, Tom.  I know Miral will want her story …  Thanks for dropping by and letting me vent a bit.  I needed that.  And thanks for the wine.”

 

Tom unfolded his legs and got up.  “Anytime.  It’s not as if I have anything else useful to contribute to this mission.” 

 

He pulled a face.  “I mean, since we’re into venting …  Truth be told, yes I _was_ looking for something a little … quieter after our adventure with the Orions, something routine, not that we have a lot of experience with that.  But now, hanging here in space, doing nothing but staring at this rock and making sure nobody steals it … that’s a tad sleepy even for my taste.”

 

Kathryn patted him on the arm again.  “You _are_ making a contribution, Tom, you and Voyager.  For one thing, you’re keeping me sane.  But more importantly, if Voyager wasn’t there guarding the discussions on the Gettysburg and deterring people from breaking the ceasefire, who knows what might happen?”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Tom sighed.  “But you know what?  It’s hard to get any kind of job satisfaction when the outcome of what you’re doing is basically a non-event.  I mean, how do you measure shit that _didn’t_ happen?  You can’t.”

 

“Unless you’re Captain Braxton,” Kathryn mumbled under her breath.

 

“Who?”

 

“Never mind.  Old acquaintance.  Just as well you don’t remember him.”

 

“Wait a minute.  The name does ring a bell.  Oh yeah, he was that guy with the time ship.  Nice lines, that ship had.  Borrowed some of ‘em for the Flyer.  Right.”  He frowned, replaying a memory in his mind.

 

“It’s coming back.  He thought we should blow ourselves up so something wouldn’t happen in the future, and you told him to piss off.  Politely, of course.  So I guess you agreed with me then:  prevention is a mug’s game.  Hard to assess.  And yes, I know I shouldn’t be looking for excitement.  Anyway, good night.”

 

Janeway chuckled, as he turned to leave.

 

“As you said yourself, Tom – be careful what you wish for.”

 

….

 

Another day, another battle drill successfully completed.  Tom wondered how long he could keep his crew sharp under the circumstances. 

 

He stared at the view screen, where the Gettysburg’s silvery form was just visible behind the small, innocent-looking circle that was Stellar Object XT-3476.  This far out, the light of the binary suns barely reflected off the planetoid, and over the space of several otherwise empty days, the Ops team had meticulously reprogrammed and enhanced the screen to include the infrared, energy and mass spectrums. 

 

With all those different sources of information merged into one coherent visual image, the screen provided a multi-hued vista that had Asil, Harry and Icheb practically blabbering with enthusiasm.  _Well, maybe just Harry._  Good thing somebody found some excitement in this assignment …

All three of Voyager’s chief  ‘science geeks,’ as Tom privately considered them, were hunched over Asil’s console again today.  They had been there on and off for days, except when Tom dragged Icheb into the Astrometrics lab to play with the Gettysburg’s data from the Antarean subspace rift, or when Harry had crew rosters and other administrivia to deal with.  Asil’s stamina was unflagging, in particular as there were some areas on the planetoid that seemed resistant to sensor penetration. The small body, she had declared, was “unquestionably worthy of close exploration”.

 

Tom was about to turn away from the view screen when something on the planetoid’s surface caught his attention.  He looked at it through narrowed eyes, wondering whether he had been mistaken when he heard no comments from the Ops console.

 

“Harry?  Asil?” he asked.  “What was that?”

 

Harry looked up.  “What was what?”

 

“That flash, on Midas just now.  Eleven o’clock, about halfway between the centre and the outer rim.  Actually, it wasn’t a flash – more like the opposite.  Something went dark for a second.  Something was bright, and then … not.  A shadow.”  He looked at the view screen again, but whatever he had seen, or imagined, was gone. 

 

Harry moved over to the auxiliary console, almost shouldering aside the ensign who was working there now.  He knew better than to question Tom’s claim; experience had taught him that the former pilot’s visual acuity was far above average.  He had been the first to spot light when Voyager emerged from weeks of darkness, even ahead of their sensors, and could gauge distances and three-dimensional grids better than anyone he knew.

 

Asil’s fingers were already flying on her own console, and the view screen zoomed in on the area Tom had described.

 

“You were correct, sir.  Oval shape, vector eight-zero-nine, heading towards the Gettysburg.  It is not presently visible because it is moving across an area in which the emissions we are tracking are in the dark spectrum.”

 

“Oval shape?  Can you be more specific as to type of object?”  Tom asked.  “Small space ship?”

 

“Unfortunately I cannot, sir.  Our sensors are unable to obtain a positive reading.  The phenomenon is noticeable only as a disruption in the mass spectrum emissions emanating from the surface.  It is a most fortuitous result of the current integrated configuration of the view screen that you were able to detect it visually.  I am unable, based on current available data, to determine its nature.”

 

Tom and Harry stared at each other, silent for one split second, before saying, practically in unison, “Cloaked ship!”

 

Harry shouted to Baytart, “Red alert!”  Tapping his comm badge, he added, “Kim to all hands.  Battle stations.  This is not a drill.  Repeat.  This is _not_ a drill.”

 

“Get me the Gettysburg online,” Tom shouted to the ensign at comms.

 

“Channel open, sir.”

 

“Voyager to Gettysburg.  Paris here.  Unidentified vessel on approach to your orbit.  It’s under cloak, presently travelling on vector eight-zero-nine.  Repeat, vessel under cloak.  Assume hostile intentions.  Origin, size and weapons complement unknown.  We’re coming to back you up.”

 

The comm crackled to life.  “Gettysburg here.  Acknowledged.  Thanks, Voyager.  All hands, red –“  Gallagher’s voice cut off in mid-sentence.

 

Tom turned to Baytart.  “Course for the Gettysburg, full impulse.”

 

_Ten seconds should get us there._

 

“Aye, sir.”

 

“Phasers powering up, ablative armour activated, shields ready to come on line.”  Ayala.  No need to tell him what was necessary.  Shields would not be raised in order  to enable emergency transport, one of the features of their repeat drills for protection of a sister ship. 

 

_Luck favours the prepared._

 

Under Baytart’s capable hands Voyager peeled out of her orbit and headed for the Gettysburg.

 

“Asil, do you have something for us to lock onto?”  Tom’s voice was urgent, as the adrenaline pounded into his system. 

 

_Shit.  I knew I should have kept my mouth shut about being bored._

 

“We are able to calculate the vessel’s location based on the last vector and its likely target, but we have insufficient data as to its speed.  It may also have adjusted course since we detected it.” 

 

_In other words, no.  Damn._

Tom strummed his fingers on the side of his chair impatiently, itching to be operating some kind of instrument, something, anything -- helm, inertial dampeners, photon torpedo banks.  To push a button, let phaser fire bloom in somebody’s aft section.  Was this what it was like, being a Captain in battle?  Issuing orders, hoping they’d be carried out?  Telling, not doing? 

 

_No wonder Janeway had always been so pithy with her instructions, always telling people to do the obvious.  Control … need for control ...._

 

“Gettysburg, anything?  Power surges?  They should be coming close.”

 

“Nothing.  Not yet.  We can’t find them.  We can’t fucking find them _._ ” 

 

_Gallagher – so, so tense._

Silence.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

The open comm line transmitted a loud noise, and an ominous clanking sound.

 

_What the hell was that?_

 

“Voyager to Gettysburg – have you been rammed?  Status?”

 

“Not rammed, but something attached itself to our hull.  There’s something else.  Vibrations.”

 

Tom’s eyes were drawn to the view screen, where the silvery hull of the Gettysburg now showed a distinct shadow, clinging to the aft section, near the warp core housing.  The alien vessel’s cloak had gone down, presumably in consequence to whatever action it was now preparing.

 

_Vibrations?  Not good._

 

“Mike?  Do we have a shot?”

 

_I have a bad feeling about this …_

 

“Not without damaging the Gettysburg,” Ayala said.  “At least not from here.  If we can get a different angle …”

 

Tom turned to Baytart to issue new instructions, but whatever he was about to say was stopped cold by Harry’s next words.

 

“Tom.  I’m reading a new power signature, coming from the hostile.”  Harry swallowed.  “It’s consistent with the readings the Flyer brought home from that continent on Denaros.  They’re … they’re arming the Scourge.”

 

 _Why wasn’t Voyager being attacked?_ The thought struck Tom out of the blue, as did the answer.  _The peace talks_.  Everybody of value to those talks was on the Gettysburg.  __

_Kathryn._

 

“Gallagher – drop shields.  It’s a suicide attack.  The Scourge.  We’ll try to get them off before they power it up fully.  Mike -- fire!”  Tom shouted at Ayala.  _“Now!”_

_Whatever damage we cause to the Gettysburg, it will be as nothing compared to …_

 

Ayala fired, three phaser blasts in rapid succession.

 

“Direct hit on the alien vessel.  Propulsion is down.”

 

Asil’s voice stemmed any momentary elation.

 

“It remains attached, however, and there has been no effect on the weapon, sir.  Its oscillation factor is increasing.”

 

“Shields?”

 

Tom cursed.

 

“No.  Not now.  Transporter room, evacuate the Gettysburg.”

 

He turned to Ayala. 

 

“Mike, keep firing.  No shields until I say.” 

 

_Immediate, unquestioning compliance.  Control._

 

“Paris to Gallagher.  We have to get your people off the ship.  Send as many over as you can from your end, into the cargo bays.  Do not transport onto our platforms.  We need to double up.”

 

“Paris to Zelis.  Get out as many as you can!  Disable safety protocols.” 

 

Mass transport had to bypass the platforms.  It’s how they had gotten two hundred Klingons off their ship once, before it self-destructed ….

 

_Thank Kahless for all those drills.  But time … need more time…._

 

Tom’s voice nearly broke with the urgency of the moment, his fingers racing on his chair console as he tried to locate life signs in what he knew would soon be a blackened mass of molten metal.

 

“Transporters offline,” came Gallagher’s voice.  Calm and collected now, cool even.

 

“Oscillations from the weapons are also interfering with the engines; we can’t get her away from you.  Hull integrity already down to twenty percent.  Do what you can for my people, Paris, then get the hell away from me.  Godspeed.”

 

Voices on the bridge, through the comm lines, all at once.

 

“We can beam out a maximum of twelve at a time.”  _Asil._

 

_Of course.  He knew that.  Had a Vulcan voice ever carried the sound of desperation, like this one, when stating the obvious?_

****

“Transport priority?”  _Zelis._

_All of them  All of them.  All…_

“Weapon pulse at maximum frequency.  Estimated time to G-burg hull disintegration twelve seconds.  Expected impact on Voyager fifteen seconds after that.”  _Harry._ **__**

****

_Twelve seconds._

****

_Three-hundred and sixty-eight lives._

 

_Where to point the transporters?_

_Kathryn Janeway._

She would be the last to ask for priority, this he knew with a certainty he recognized as his own.

 

 _Ashmore and Parsons._   They had stood shoulder to shoulder with him against the Kazon, the Hirogen and the Borg.  Both serving on the Gettysburg now.  They’d come over for dinner three nights ago …

 

_What would Janeway do? ****_

****

_Janeway.  The conference.  Two worlds will go back to war if their leaders are killed._

 

_Mission imperative._

 

_No time to think what someone else would do._

_Do.  Just … do._

 

Eleven-point-five seconds.

 

“Lock on Admiral Janeway’s comm badge and transport her and everyone in her vicinity.  Then scatter-beam the nursery.  Get the children.”

 

 _Whom next?_   _Who appointed him arbiter of life and death?_

 

Mess hall.  Random selection, a cross section of the crew at any given time, many people in the same place.

“Then the mess hall.  After that …” _Bridge?  Engineering?  Shuttle maintenance …?_   

 

“Bridge next.  Baytart – get us out of here, on my mark.”  __

“Transport links are down, sir.”  _Asil._  

 

“How many?  How _many_?  Report!”

 

_Calm down, Thomas.  It is done._

 

“Sixty-five, sir.  Twelve from Admiral Janeway’s group, two separate transports to clear the nursery…”  Asil stopped in her recitation.

 

_Sixty-five.  Out of three hundred and sixty-eight …_

_“_ Shields, Mike.  _Now.”  Harry._

 

The flash coming from the Gettysburg would have blinded every officer on the bridge but for the automatic filter in the screen.  Still, when it came – brighter than a thousand suns – all hands flew up instinctively to shield vulnerable eyes.  Tom was the first to open his, and saw the distortion seemingly warp the light of the surrounding stars, just before it hit.

 

_Not done._

 

“Brace for impact!” he screamed into the ship’s comm system as the subspace compression wave caused by the Talari weapon propelled Voyager almost onto her side.  Baytart’s hands were flying on the helm as he tried to steady her. 

 

Water stopped the molecular modification effect of the Scourge.  Did the vacuum of space?  Was that why the suicide ship had attached itself directly to the Gettysburg’s hull? 

 

_Now’s not the time to find out.  Besides, there could be more of … them._

 

“Baytart, engage warp!  Move, move, _move_!”

 

“I can’t get a stable warp field, sir.  She’s being bounced around too much.” 

 

Not what he needed to hear.   Tom was at the conn in three strides.

 

“Cut engines, now.  Engineering, drop inertial dampeners by fifty percent and route power to external hull stabilizers, _now!”_  He reached over Baytart’s shoulders, tapping out a series of commands.  The ship shuddered, and sat perfectly still. __

“There.  _Now_.”

 

Unquestioningly, Baytart entered the necessary command. The ship lurched and the officers on the bridge hung on to their stations as best they could.  Who knew what was happening on the lower decks, where people had had no warning when the dampeners went?

 

With a groan that Tom could feel in his knees as he picked himself off the floor, the ship stretched into warp. 

 

“I didn’t know Voyager could go to warp from a standing start,” Baytart said, his voice not concealing his wonder.

 

“Neither did I,” Tom answered in a low voice.  “I’d hoped, though.  I’ve done it in the Enterprise’s Flyer.  Hard on the hull.  Has to be a real emergency.”

 

“Like imminent destruction?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

Tom clapped the pilot on the shoulder and looked around the bridge, wiping the blood from the gash on his forehead off with his sleeve before it could run into his eye.  There were a few loose plates on the floor, one or two consoles were fizzing and sparking from the overload, and Icheb was massaging his shoulder.  He looked around furtively, hoping no one would notice, and stopped when he felt Tom’s eyes on him.

 

The reports started to come in from all over the ship like a tidal wave.  None offered comfort.

 

“Hull breach on Decks Thirteen and Fourteen.  Structural integrity down by forty-two percent, but the ablative armour absorbed most of the impact of the shock wave.” 

_So much for the question about whether the Scourge’s impact can cross a vacuum.  Obviously it’s effectiveness is considerably reduced, but …_

 

“Good thing we got her to warp when we did,” Harry interrupted Tom’s musings, obviously having had the same train of thought.  “Who knows how hard we’d have been hit if we hadn’t.”

 

“Casualties in Engineering, the mess hall, Transporter Room Two ...  Make that from all over the ship, sir.  Two dead, twenty-seven injured and counting.”

 

_Two dead.  Who?  Which deck?_

 

“We have warp, sir, but I can’t hold it.”

 

“Quarter impulse then, let’s fix things up.  Engineering.  Status report.”

 

He was beyond relief when B’Elanna’s voice came on. 

 

“Engines sustained minor damage; we’ll have warp up and running again in an hour or so.  Nicoletti is out with what looks like a skull fracture but okay.  Repair detail to the breached decks is down a few hands due to injuries.  We can use any additional personnel you can spare.”

 

Harry made the ship-wide call for free hands to assist engineering without missing a beat.  Then he looked up briefly from his console.  Another report had come in. 

 

“Nursery is undamaged, no injuries apart from a few bumps.”

 

_Thank Kahless.  Miral …  Selfish, selfish.  What about the Gettysburg’s children?_

 

“Sickbay to bridge.  Mr. Paris … Captain, I could use an extra pair of hands here.  We have dozens of casualties here, more coming in.”

 

“Acknowledged.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.  Transporter room.  Status?”

 

If her voice was anything to go by, Crewman Cor Zelis was hanging on to her equilibrium with every fibre of her being. 

 

“Admiral Janeway and the delegates are bruised and shaken up but mostly okay.  We have…” she suppressed a sob.  “We have seventeen children here, and three teachers.  About three dozen from the mess hall.  And then … transporters cut out.”

 

Zelis had done miracles, he realized.  Sixty-five, in under twelve seconds.  He would have to remember to enter a commendation on her file for what she had achieved. 

 

And get her counseling for what she had not.

 

Another sob, a resolute clearing of the young Bajoran’s throat.  She was a Starfleet officer, and there was work to be done. 

 

“The children are … traumatized, sir.  What should we do?”

 

Seventeen.  Likely all orphans now. 

_Deanna Troi, where are you_ …?

 

Tom turned to Ayala, whose uniform was scorched by the smoke emanating from the Tactical station, but who seemed otherwise okay. 

 

“Mike, have your guys take the Denarians and the Talari to quarters.  _On separate decks_.  Twenty-four-seven guard detail outside.  Don’t let any of them out unless I say so.  They are permitted to make one transmission each to their home worlds, to tell people there they’re still alive.  After that, shut down all comm links to their quarters.” 

 

Someone from one of those benighted worlds had taken their war to Starfleet.  And the main proponents of that war were on his ship now.  The hell with protocol and diplomatic niceties – for all Tom knew, one of those delegates had given the order himself _._

_All bets are off, when people are into dying for whatever passes as their cause …_

 

Ayala nodded and headed for the turbolift, barking orders into his comm badge as he went.

 

Harry was on a comm line to his wife. 

 

“Libby, can you and Emily go and take the children from the transporter room into the nursery for now, with their teachers?  Take down names and details as best you can.  The Starfleet personnel database will have …” his voice cracked a little.  “Starfleet will have next of kin information.  Get it.  Headquarters will make the initial contact, but we’ll need to be able to link the kids to their relatives when we can.” 

 

Headed over to the Captain’s chair, breathing as evenly and as deeply as the adrenaline surging through his body would permit, Tom was trying his damndest to quiet the voices that were hammering away at his mind, again and again and again.

 

_Three hundred and three on the Gettysburg._

_Two on Voyager._

_Three hundred and three on the Gettysburg._

_Two on Voyager._

_Three hundred and …_

_____________________________________

 

NOTE:  To justify awarding a hit, the fencing judge routinely announces the exact sequence of actions that took place before he called a “halt”.  It seems rather unnecessary when the action was obvious, but comes in handy when it wasn’t.  “ _Attaque par la gauche_ ” means, literally, “attack from the left”. 

 

Right and left in this context are simple statements of fact, without political implications.  But that said, some attacks, even in fencing, do seem to come from left field.

 

 


	6. Touché

Tom finally left the bridge, after satisfying himself that the suicide ship seemed to have been on its own.  How many more of the deadly weapons could the Talari have in any event?

 

Tom Paris was not entirely a stranger to suicide missions, when he thought about it and knew that he would not hesitate to fly a shuttle into another ship, if doing so meant saving Voyager, Miral or any of his loved ones from a similar fate.  He also knew with certainty that Kathryn Janeway, Harry and B’Elanna would do – had done – similar things, many times over.

 

How many more pilots would be willing to give their lives to deliver a blow in the name of a dying conflict they still hoped to win for their people, when peace negotiations were already underway?  Assuming that was what those who managed the ship that brought down the Gettysburg wanted?  Or did they blow the ship out of space in order to gain access to Midas and its riches?  His memory flashed back to Tierna, the Kazon warrior who had blown himself up in order to enable the Nistrim to take over Voyager.  Tierna’s sacrifice had been entirely in the name of greed -- there had never been another like him. 

 

_Speculation won’t get you answers. ****_

 

He forced his mind back into the practical aspects of their present predicament.  Starfleet could not be raised; they were too close to the anomaly, and subspace messaging yielded nothing but echoes.  He had given orders to keep trying, but found himself silently and unaccountably relieved that thanks to this glitch, the families of the Gettysburg dead would live another day or so with their world intact. 

 

Tom’s last action on his way to the turbolift had been to ask his officers to “figure out where the hell that goddamn cloaking technology came from.”  It had similar characteristics to the cloaks the Enterprise had encountered in the Neutral Zone; none of Janeway’s briefings mentioned a Romulan presence anywhere near this system though.  That said, the Romulans could be nearly as mercenary as the Ferengi – depending on what they wanted – and they didn’t exactly have to travel here to make a sale.

 

He shook off these thoughts; the matter was in capable hands.  Harry had been in the Neutral Zone, he knew how to deal with things under cloak ....  Time to get his head into a space where he could be Tom Paris, sometime medic, not The-Captain-Who-Solves-Everything _._ Right now, the medic was who his ship needed most.

 

The doors to Sickbay opened to reveal a scene of pure chaos.  The Doctor flitted from patient to patient, interspersing barked commands to Nurse Tval and a couple of volunteers with complaints about people with minor injuries who failed to leave fast enough for his taste.  But there was no doubt about the efficiency and effectiveness of his triage assessments and treatments, and those who were familiar with his peculiar bedside manner knew better than to take offence.

 

By unspoken agreement, Tom handled the minor injuries, while the EMH and Nurse T’val dealt with those requiring surgery.  He moved swiftly, using the opportunity to try and reassure injured crewmembers shaken up by the attack.  But if he was honest with himself, all he wanted was to lash out and punch something or someone; his heart wasn’t really in the healing. 

 

_Except …_

 

“I want Mommy,” the little girl someone had dropped off on the biobed beside him sobbed.  “I hurt, and I want my Mommy.”

 

“Shhhh, sweetie,” Tom made the soothing sound as he ran the dermal regenerator over the gash on her forehead.  “I’m really sorry, but your mommy can’t be here right now.  But I’m here to help.  It won’t hurt so much in a minute.  See?  Already better.”

 

She nodded, biting back another sob and looking at him with large brown eyes.  Tom rallied, gave her a smile – the bright, reassuring one he reserved for Miral when she needed encouragement to pick herself up after a fall.  And he hoped his little patient wouldn’t see the pain behind his own eyes, the unshed tears.  She was only three, four years old at best. 

 

“Look, I have a scrape just like yours on my own forehead.  I haven’t had time to deal with it yet, and it’s not bad enough to bother the Doctor about it.  You think you can fix it for me?”

 

The little girl tentatively took the regenerator he handed her, almost dropping it as the weight surprised her.

 

“Here, push the button and then wave it slowly across my forehead, like this.”  He squatted down beside the biobed, took her hand and steered it across the back of his hand, watching a small scrape on his knuckle disappear as if it had been erased.

 

“Now you try it.  Up here.”

 

“Mr. Paris, we don’t have time …” the Doctor caught himself when he saw just what was happening, and tensed his jaw a little, in a grimace of realization and sympathy. 

 

“Never mind,” he muttered, and turned to his next patient.

 

Tom gave the little girl a thank-you hug and a kiss on the head when she was done.  About half of her strokes had hit the target, and he assumed his forehead at least looked a bit better.

 

“Great job, sweetheart,” he said.  “What’s your name?”

 

“Andrée.  Andrée Gallagher,” she said shyly, reaching for Tom’s collar, as he swallowed. 

 

 _Gallagher._ Not among the sixty-five, that he knew with a cold certainty; transporters had failed before they got to the bridge.  But maybe her mother had been in the mess hall, or on security detail in the negotiations?  Harry was even now cataloguing the survivors; only after that was done would they tell the children …

 

_Who would tell the children?_

 

“My Daddy’s a Captain too,” the little girl said matter-of-factly, touching his pips.  A ‘Fleet brat, she had probably known her rank insignia before she learned her colours.  He certainly had …  “I bet he’s really busy right now.  Things are a bit of a mess.” 

 

She looked around critically, wiping her damp cheeks with her sleeve and hiccupping a little, and realization dawned.  “This isn’t even our Sickbay.”

 

“You’re right, Andrée, things are a mess, and you’re not on the Gettysburg anymore.  You’re on Voyager now.  But you’re safe here, and that’s the most important thing.  That’s what your Mommy and Daddy want for you, more than anything.”

 

 _Using the present tense.  Coward._   _Deep breath.  Steady voice._

 

“I tell you what though.  Why don’t you go to our nursery for a bit?  That’s where my own little girl is.  She’s just a little bit younger than you.  Her name is Miral, and she will make you feel welcome on Voyager until we can sort things out, okay?”

 

Andrée nodded solemnly.  “Is the nursery less messy?”

 

“Well, to tell you the truth, there’s toys and crayons everywhere, pillows on the floor, books being pulled off the shelves …  So -- how could we ever tell the difference if it _was_ a mess?” 

 

She giggled a little at that, and Tom felt as if he had been given a momentary absolution. He waved over one of the crewmen from security who had just been dismissed by Nurse Tval.  The man was clutching his arm, but seemed otherwise mobile and more than happy to have a task.  He took the little girl’s hand to lead her away; she waved at Tom as she left.  __

_How on Earth do you tell a four-year-old that her parents have been turned into a cloud of ash, slowly dispersing in space?_

Tom was almost grateful when his comm badge chirped.  The feeling didn’t last.

 

“Captain, sensors are detecting a signature similar to that of the vessel that attacked the Gettysburg, heading for us on an intercept course.  Arrival is expected in fifteen minutes.”  Asil.

 

Tom spat a curse and turned towards the EMH. 

 

“Gotta go, Doc!” he shouted and sprinted towards the turbolift.  It didn’t even cross his mind to be relieved that he no longer had to seek permission to leave Sickbay.

 

…..

 

Tom’s first question out of the turbolift was addressed to Harry, who was bent over the ops console beside Asil.

 

“Are you sure?  The first ship was cloaked.”

 

“Icheb recalibrated the sensors to check for the particular emissions the weapon gives off, rather than for warp signatures or known engine resonance patterns.”

 

Tom nodded his approval to the young science officer, over at his own station.  “Good thinking, Ensign.  Obviously they didn’t consider that.  They must be new to cloaking technology, and haven’t adapted their systems to that yet.” 

 

He tapped his comm badge.  “Paris to Engineering.  Do we have warp yet?”

 

“Two minutes,” came B’Elanna’s voice over the comm. 

 

“Make it thirty seconds if you can.” 

 

Tom turned to Baytart.  “Full impulse, Pablo.  Get us the hell away from here.  Mike, fire phasers at will on the retreat.  I’m not taking any chances that that thing will latch on to us like it did to the Gettysburg.”

 

“Belay that order, Lieutenant.”  Kathryn Janeway’s gravelly voice came from the turbolift.  Her hair was in disarray, but otherwise the emergency transport appeared to have not caused her any difficulties.  Her posture was as straight as it had ever been, and she strode onto the bridge without looking where she was going; her feet knew the way. 

 

“Hold your fire unless this ship demonstrates hostile intentions.  Destroying it could ruin everything we came here for.”

 

“And melting down the Gettysburg didn’t _display hostile intentions_ or _ruin things_?”  Tom was incredulous.

 

“We don’t know who was responsible for that action, Tom, except that it wasn’t this ship.  It could have been the action of an isolated faction.  I doubt that anyone from Talar or Denaros would attack their own leadership.”

 

“Well, somebody _did._   At the very least we’re looking at a very well equipped faction, with access to top-of-the-line Talari weaponry,” Tom shot back.  “Weaponry that this ship carries as well, since that’s how Asil detected it.  And I believe they’re powering it up, otherwise we might not have.”

 

“Understood.  Nonetheless, Mr. Ayala, do not fire until I give permission.”

 

Tom stood still for a moment, not sure what he should do, or how should he feel.  His direct order on his bridge had been just as directly countermanded – but by an Admiral.  Not to mention that the Admiral in question was his former Captain, whose judgment in these matters had allowed Voyager to survive for seven years. 

 

Was there a protocol for this?  Should he be angry?  _Was_ he angry?  He looked over to Harry, but Harry had apparently not noticed a thing; he was bent on tracking the ship on the reconfigured sensors.  And all considerations aside, decisions still needed to be made.

 

Decisions.  He’d made so many …

_Three hundred and three on the Gettysburg.  Two on Voyager._   _Andr_ _ée Gallagher._

_Fire?  Don’t fire?  Not his call?  Fine..._

 

He looked over to his XO again.  Harry – once an ops officer, always an ops officer -- was exchanging rapid-fire observations with Asil, before speaking up.

 

“The signature is remaining constant.  It’s impossible to tell though whether that’s because the weapon is already armed, or because that’s its regular power emission.”

 

With Ayala’s eyes on him, seeking confirmation of his orders, Tom nodded.

 

“Mike – hold fire.  But let’s not stick around for a friendly hug and a chat.”  He turned to Baytart, whose hand had reflexively paused over the controls at Janeway’s words -- even though they had been meant for Ayala. 

 

“Execute your orders, Lieutenant.”

“Course, sir?”

 

Tom’s mind raced.  It was one thing to run away from a threat, quite another trying to figure out where to run _to_.  And then to put that into a direction that Baytart could feed into the nav system.  Oh, for a cloak …

 

_Cloak._

 

“The subspace anomaly the Gettysburg was investigating.  We’ll use it to hide from their sensors until we can figure out what’s going on, or at least until they show their cards and we … feel more comfortable about counter-measures.”

 

_Until the Admiral says it’s okay for us to blow these bastards into the Q continuum._

 

His eyes flicked over to Janeway, who had clearly been about to issue her own directions, but instead thoughtfully nodded her approval.

 

“Excellent idea,” she said.  “Warp Six.”

 

“Warp engines are online now.”  Baytart punched in the necessary commands, and the ship jumped to warp.

 

Tom turned to Asil.  “Distance to the alien?”

 

The Vulcan frowned a little.  “The alien ship remains in pursuit, and appears to be gaining.”

 

“What?”  Harry stared over her shoulder, rendered even more indignant by his verification of her findings.  “I thought they weren’t supposed to have technology that went beyond Warp Three.”

 

“Go to Warp Eight, Pablo.”  Tom turned from Baytart back to Asil and Harry.  “Still following?”

 

Harry nodded, with clenched teeth.  “We’re losing them now, but not by much.”

 

“Paris to Torres.  Can you give us Nine Point Five?”

 

“Not for long, we can’t.”

 

“I take that as a yes.  Pablo, Warp Nine Point Five.”

 

“Aye, sir.”

 

“The increase in speed seems to have done the trick.  The alien ship is falling behind.  We’ll be able to reach the anomaly and get under its sensor cloak shortly.”  Harry’s voice was more relief than excitement.

 

Tom’s screen flicked on, and B’Elanna‘s face appeared, her hair in disarray and smudges discolouring both her cheeks.  Her tunic was still stained in dried blood, presumably from dealing with the injuries sustained by members of her staff.  There had been no time for cleanup or other niceties; there wouldn’t be for some time.  Still, she was the most welcome and beautiful sight he’d seen in hours.

 

“Engines are holding out, but we won’t be able to sustain that speed above ten minutes or so,” she said, sounding exhausted but determined.

 

Tom, not bothering to hide his relief at seeing her, if only over the ship’s vid comm system, replied, “Ten minutes is good; at Nine Point Five we’ll be where we need to be.  Once we’re hidden by the anomaly we can finish repairs.”

 

“Ten minutes,” B’Elanna said, the menacing undercurrent in her voice unmistakable.  “But no more.  Not if you want to be able to fly her home.  Just so we’re clear here.  Torres out.”

 

Status updates continued to come in on a regular basis -- on Voyager’s proximity to the anomaly; on the location of the pursuing vessel; and on the progress of various repairs.  Engines were holding – so far.  Defective panels that had peeled off the ablative armour were being replicated, but could not be installed until the ship would be motionless, and EVA possible. 

 

The EMH’s announcement that they had lost another crewmember to the injuries she had sustained as a result of the concussive wave was met by stony silence on Tom’s part, and Janeway’s reaching for and grabbing his arm for a moment. 

 

 _Crewman Sandra Peterson, Maintenance and Repairs._ Third generation Starfleet non-commissioned personnel.  Peterson had survived seven years in the Delta Quadrant before taking an assignment at Deep Space Six.  She had applied for a transfer back to Voyager as soon as she had heard about her reinstatement, excited to be on a moving ship again and happy to be “home”.  Tom added his hand on top of Janeway’s, drawing strength from the touch, as she did from his. 

 

The Gettysburg’s children were being cared for in the nursery, and Libby Kim confirmed that a number of crewmembers had already indicated they would take them in.  Tom’s quick consultation with B’Elanna confirmed her willingness to house little Andrée Gallagher until the children could be taken off the ship.  When they were both on shift, Andrée – like Miral – would be looked after by Libby and her nursery staff, which had already been augmented by Harry through creative crew rotations.

 

Only four of the children – including one set of twins -- had a parent who had been brought out of the Gettysburg alive.  The small families were accommodated in quarters vacated by single Voyager crewmembers who had offered to double up with colleagues for the duration. 

 

The older children had been told, and an encoded list of the casualties had been prepared; it was ready to be sent to Starfleet Headquarters Command the moment a comms window would open up.  Given the interference from the anomaly, Asil had opined that this could take some time.

 

In the midst of the litany of problems and small victories, Arno Schmidt’s voice came on, dripping with ill-concealed venom.  The delegation of Denaros was protesting its “confinement”, and wished to see the Federation envoy.  As far as they were concerned, the attack on the Gettysburg had clearly been a Talar-led operation; the weapon used spoke for itself. 

 

The Talari President, on the other hand, claimed that the Denarians must have seized and used Talari technology, in order to scuttle the peace talks.  They clearly wanted the Federation to believe that the Denarians were the victims – an old ruse, that no one should fall for.  He did not respond to Tom’s caustic request for an explanation of how the Denarians had gotten their hands on the Talari’s primary  weapon of mass destruction.

 

The one thing both delegations seemed to agree on was that talks _would_ be terminated.  Admiral Janeway -- and the Captain of the ship they were now on against their will and pursuant to circumstances beyond their control – simply _must_ ensure their immediate return home.

 

Janeway’s patience snapped.  “Tell them to cool their heels for a while, Ensign.  Tell them we’re both injured.  Anything.  I don’t care.  I need to make sure the ship is safe before I deal with them.”

 

She turned to Baytart.  “How much longer to the anomaly?”

 

“We have reached the outer rim, Admiral.”

 

Tom’s eyes locked with Janeway’s, as if seeking confirmation of what he was about to propose.  His voice sounded questioning, almost unsure when he made his proposal.

 

“I don’t think we need to go all the way into the thing to take advantage of its cloaking effect.  From what I saw of the data the Gettysburg gathered, the gravimetric impulses emanating from the anomaly’s core are reversing light wave polarity up to a quarter of a light year out.  If we go too far in, we risk additional stresses on the hull.  We should be safe if we stay in the outer rim and carry out evasive maneuvers at irregular intervals; the key is to keep our location unpredictable.”

 

Janeway reflected for a moment, then nodded decisively.  “Yes, you’re probably right, Tom.  Mr. Baytart, position?”

 

“Fifteen billion klicks out, sir.”

 

“When you get to ten, bring her about.”

 

Tom nodded, pleased that Janeway had accepted his suggestion rather than insisting on her first command.  He looked around the bridge and noticed Ayala’s dark eyes resting on him thoughtfully, a slight frown on his face.  He briefly wondered what his tactical officer was thinking about when he should be focusing on tracking the alien ship, but his ruminations were interrupted. 

 

Asil’s clear, uninflected voice cut through the hum of the bridge, over the clatter now being made by the emergency repair crew.

 

“Captain, we are being hailed.”

 

“On screen,” Tom and Janeway said in unison.  He flicked her a fleetingly amused look but said nothing, while she cleared her throat in mild embarrassment.

 

“Old habits …” she muttered by way of explanation, if not apology.  Then added, “One way visuals only.”

 

The screen showed what appeared to be a Talari in civilian clothing, but with distinctly military posture and demeanour.  His face bore a deep scar that pulled up the corner of his mouth, giving him a somewhat sinister appearance that was augmented by the cold, calculating stare in his eyes.

 

What could be seen of the interior of his small ship was sparse, but the technology displayed seemed to Tom somewhat more advanced than their briefings had led them to believe the Talari possessed.  He frowned briefly and tapped a couple of commands into his console while waiting for the man to speak.

 

“Federation vessel.  You are harbouring those who ordered the rape, murder and mutilation of our innocent settlers and their children, and that traitor -- the so-called Supreme Talon of Talar -- who would lie down quietly, make peace with these beasts and then give them what is rightfully ours.  There can be no peace, without justice for the wrongs done by Qorath and his ilk, and no legitimacy for Naldar’s rule while he holds sway with them.”

 

He drew a breath, as if to ensure that the extent and righteousness of his indignation would register properly, before continuing in the face of stony silence from his audience.

 

“We demand that you hand over Qorath and all members of the Denarian government present on your ship to negotiate this so-called peace, so that they may be tried for their crimes.  We also demand that you hand over Naldar, who is unfit to rule over the Talari worlds and who has brought us nothing but shame.  We honour Talith, defender of her people.  She and the other members of the Talari delegation may go in peace.  We mean her, and them, no harm.”

 

 _Except for the fact that their cohorts almost melted them down with the rest of the Gettysburg.  Collateral damage, no doubt._ Kathryn and Tom exchanged glances.  He shrugged; as far as he was concerned, negotiating with irrational fanatics was her area of specialty.  He motioned to the comm link, inviting her to speak.

 

“Your demands are unacceptable.  We are in the midst of negotiations for a peace that will benefit all the people in this sector.  The Federation does not respond to blackmail, or to violence, and we won’t be diverted from our goal, which is peace between Denaros and Talar.”

 

The unknown Talari rose a little in his seat. 

 

“You will comply with our demands, Federation vessel, and if you do not we will destroy you.  You may hide now, but we know where you are and we will be waiting.  But understand this:  We are not afraid to die for what we believe in, and for what is right for our people.” 

 

He paused dramatically, as if wanting to make sure that his message would sink in.

 

“But our fight is not with the Federation.  If you do not wish to die, send the Denarian delegation and Naldar out of this … this nebula in a shuttle, and you and Talith will be free to go.  Justice will be done.“

 

 Another pause.  “I speak for the Children of Talasar.”

 

The Talari stared at the screen for a moment, before abruptly cutting the transmission without awaiting a response.

 

“Well,” Tom said into the silence, “Nice to know that they didn’t have a particular beef with the three hundred people they just murdered.  Wonder what they’ll do with the people they _do_ have a problem with?”

 

He looked over at Janeway, who was staring thoughtfully at the screen, as if studying the after-image of the man, and listening to the echo of his words.

 

“Time for a discussion with the senior staff, I think.”  Tom reached for the comm panel in his chair.

 

“No, wait, Tom.  I would like to hear what the Talari know about this character first,” the Admiral said.  “ _Then_ we can discuss options.”

 

Tom frowned for a moment, then shrugged.  “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” he said.  “Although I’m not sure, frankly, just how our tactical options would change as a result of whatever the Talari have to say.  We’ll still be stuck in the anomaly, with them waiting to attach themselves to our hull when we come out.”

 

But there was no real challenge in his tone, even as Janeway frowned a little at having been questioned.  He turned to Baytart.  Positioned beside the pilot, he rested the heels of his hands on the helm console.  “Pablo, carry out evasive maneuver patterns at random intervals, but make sure you don’t go deeper in or farther out of the anomaly.”

 

Baytart turned around.  “Wouldn’t we be safer deeper inside, Captain?”

 

Tom shook his head.  “That depends on what you want to be safe _from_.  Our friend there may have a version of the Scourge onboard, but contrary to his ill-informed assumption this is not a nebula.  I remember the times I got stuck in subspace.  It wasn’t fun, and that was flying shuttles, not Voyager herself.  We’ll have to walk a rather fine line between the danger in here and what’s waiting for us out there.  Change positions frequently, but don’t go in any deeper.”

 

Kathryn studied the swirling vista on the view screen for a long moment, unseeing, as the stars that were just visible through the distortions at its rim shifted, stretched and twisted with the maneuvers Baytart coaxed out of Voyager.

 

“I’m not sure what the hell that was all about,” she said as if to herself, although the look she gave Tom suggested that the question was not a rhetorical one.  “A revolution on Talar?  A faction of colonists bought off by the Denarians?  Talasar was one of the colonies ravaged by Qorath and his troops.  But why, in all the intel reports I have seen, and in the discussions with both Parties, have we never heard of a group that calls itself the _Children of Talasar?_ ”

 

Tom shifted his weight back onto his feet and released the helm, briefly clapping his conn officer on the shoulder as he turned towards the Admiral.  If she was looking to him for input, he would be happy enough to provide it.

 

“You forgot independent commercial interests,” he said.  “Wouldn’t be the first time …  Either way, who or whatever they are, seems like a game changer to me.” 

 

There was no irony in his voice.

 

Kathryn nodded slowly.  “Let’s make sure they don’t take over what we are trying to accomplish here.  We still have two sides to an armed conflict to reconcile, and from where I stand, the _Children of Talasar_ will not be allowed to interfere just because they have a big gun in their pocket.”

 

She looked around the bridge, hands on hips.  “Well, it looks like things are well in hand here.  I’ll go and see the two delegations and see what they have to say about this development.  I’ll call a senior officer’s briefing as soon as I’m done.  You have the bridge.”

 

And with that, she rose from her chair and headed for the turbolift, leaving the Tom to exchange a slightly puzzled glance with his First Officer, who shrugged.  Some things, apparently, never changed.

 

_____________________________________________________

 

NOTE:  “ _Touch_ _é”_ is what fencers will say to acknowledge a hit, raising their hand in the process.  Theoretically, anyway; most fencers would rather not admit that they’ve been hit -- especially when the scoring apparatus registers simultaneous hits, or one that’s valid and one off-target -- in the hope that the referee messes things up and doesn’t score it against them.  I mean, seriously.  That whole gentlemanly, acknowledge-your-opponent’s-finesse-and-hand-him-the-weapon-when-he-drops-it-in-mid-fight thing?  Highly exaggerated, hate to wreck your illusion here.  At least when it comes to matches during competitions. 

 

But sometimes a hit just is so bloody obvious that you might as well get points for sportsmanship by acknowledging it; the referee will do it for you in any event.  Then straighten your blade, to buy some time and to make sure it will bend to your will the next time, and try to even up the score.  With prejudice.

 


	7. Arrêt

"You've got to tell her."  The tone in B'Elanna's voice was urgent, bordering on exasperation, as she stood in front of her husband and Harry Kim, hands on her hips and dark eyes on fire.

 

"Tell her what, _Commander_?"

 

There was no need to demand clarification who 'she' was, nor any mistaking the annoyance in Tom's rather pointed reply.  Being challenged by his wife in front of a witness – even if it was his best friend - wasn't his idea of fun, nor was having been summoned to her office in Main Engineering on what was evidently a pretext.  He may not feel much like a Captain all that often yet, but there were times when pulling rank was more than a temptation, when it was a necessity.

 

B'Elanna just as obviously didn't care. She had a point to make to both men; as far as she was concerned, the fact that they happened to be Voyager's Command team was part of the problem, not a reason for circumspection.

 

"You've got to tell her that this is no longer her ship. It's _your_ ship, _Captain_.  And yours, too, _Commander_.  From what I hear, both of you seem to have forgotten that."

 

"Hear what, exactly, and from whom?"

 

Tom's arms were crossed in front of his chest now, in the classic defensive pose he often assumed when an argument with his mate was inevitable – one he was pretty certain he would probably lose.  If he had learned one thing in over three years of marriage to B'Elanna Torres and the stormy years before that, it was that trying to forestall the inevitable was a lost cause.  Best to go in swinging.

 

She ignored the second half of Tom’s question, but was only too happy to respond to the first.  Especially since he hadn’t actually denied her accusation.

 

“You let her stop Mike from firing on a ship that was about to do to us what they did to the Gettysburg; you let her issue course commands to Baytart; and _then_ you let her stop you from calling a briefing, for those of us who’d really like to know what the hell is happening and help figure out what to do about it.  All of which leads me to ask: just who is running this ship, you or Janeway?”

 

B’Elanna turned her fiery gaze on Harry, who was twitching uncomfortably where he stood.  This discussion had considerable potential for turning from a disagreement among senior officers into a marital dispute, and Harry had watched enough spats between his two best friends over the years not to be keen on witnessing another.  He withered a little under the heat.

 

“And you ... _Starfleet …_ you’ve got to remember you’re no longer an ensign.  Or an Ops officer, for that matter.  We have one of those, and she’s very good at her job.  You’re a First Officer, Harry.  _Tom’s_ First Officer.  For seven years we heard you whinge about not getting a promotion.  Now you’ve got finally got not two pips but three, so for Kahless’ sake, sit on that damn chair and act like you belong there.”

 

Harry found a spot on one of his fingernails and started to examine it, far more closely that it probably deserved.  If there was anything to say in response to B’Elanna’s unexpected attack, he couldn’t put it into words, and the silence began to stretch uncomfortably.  He looked up when he heard the sigh that escaped Tom’s lips, relieved that he wouldn’t be expected to say something immediately.

 

“All considerations of rank aside, _Commander._ And I won’t, for the moment, get into how it’s somehow not okay for an Admiral to issue orders to a Captain, but perfectly okay for the Chief Engineer to do that to the First Officer.  What I want to know is, how exactly did you hear about what went on on the bridge that makes you so sure you can just drag us down here and yell at us?  You’ve been busy in engineering.”

 

Tom asked softly.  He didn’t bother refuting what she had said; the at times excessively brutal honesty he had learned to apply to his own actions over the years no longer allowed for the luxury of self-denial.  But he could, and would, try and create a tactical diversion.

 

“I have my sources,” B’Elanna replied, clenching her jaw a little and lifting her chin.

 

“Sources …?”  Enlightenment dawned on Tom.  “Let me guess.  Ayala?” 

 

The former Maquis was the closest friend B’Elanna had on the bridge apart from himself and Harry, and it didn’t take a mathematical genius to arrive at the conclusion that if anyone had been talking to her about anything that went on there, it would have been him.  Bowing to the inevitable, she conceded the point.

 

“Mike happens to think that you’re selling yourself short as a Captain, and that you should be more … robust about asserting your proper role on this ship.  Tom, you were basically telling Janeway and Chakotay what they could do with their orders when you were a Lieutenant and an Ensign, for Kahless’ sake.  So what’s got into you now, that you just let her take over control of _your_ ship?  She commands the mission, but she doesn’t control Voyager.  Nacheyev made that clear, didn’t she?”

 

Her dark eyes bored into his blue ones -- challenging, waiting, wanting.  They had discussed this even before Voyager left McKinley, the dynamics that would unfold with an Admiral onboard.  Clearly, Janeway couldn’t be both the neutral envoy and the one giving the orders to the ships sent to safeguard the negotiations.  And just as clearly, Tom had agreed only a few weeks ago, Starfleet rules on command and control in the field gave precedence to the Captain in operational matters.

 

Finally, Tom let out a sigh.  He could of course have defended himself, argued that the decision to fire on the alien vessel was one affecting the peace mission and hence Janeway’s to make.  But he also knew B’Elanna would spot the cop-out in a nanosecond.

 

“I guess you’re right,” he said, with a sideways glance at Harry.  “No -- I _know_ you’re right.  It’s just so … so damned easy to fall back into those old patterns. You know, since I got that fourth pip, I’ve never really stopped asking myself, _what would Janeway do?_   And now … now, I don’t even have to ask.  I can just watch her do it.”

 

“Yeah, and watch your crew do the same thing, from the First Officer on down.”  B’Elanna had started pacing now.  “ _Your_ crew.  What kind of message does that send to them, that their Captain allows his authority to be taken away, like _that?”_

She snapped her fingers. 

 

“You guys … you’rethe Command team on this ship.  And you, Tom Paris, are a damn good Captain, in case you hadn’t noticed.  With damn good instincts.  I happen to agree with Mike on that.  You showed that on the Snowflakes mission and now, too, running all those drills, getting the crew ready, and then managing to transport out as many of the Gettysburg’s people as you did.  Others would have wasted valuable seconds putting up shields when they went in.  I mean, dammit, Tom – that was _smart_.  _And_ a hard decision, under any circumstance.”

 

_Three lives on Voyager, in exchange for sixty-five from the Gettysburg …_

 

She held up her hand to forestall any comment about how it had been the transporter crew that had achieved the nearly impossible. 

 

“ _Your_ preparations.  _Your_ decisions.  _Your_ orders.  And Kathryn Janeway, Admiral or not, former Captain or not – she may have taught you most of what you know, but for all intents and purposes, when it comes to running this ship today, she’s just a passenger.  She can _command_ you where to go to advance the negotiations, but she doesn’t _control_ the ship.”

 

B’Elanna stopped briefly in her tirade, looking for the right words to drive her point home.

 

“Remember just before we came home, and that … that _other_ Admiral Janeway came on board, ready to take over everything?  Well, _Captain_ Janeway wouldn’t let her.  And neither would you, then.  When that Admiral gave you an order, you looked to the Captain for confirmation before you moved so much as a finger.  Everyone did.  Harry should be doing that now, as should Baytart and everybody else, and you, _Captain Paris,_ should do what Janeway did then.  Not what she tells you to do today.”

 

More softly, she added, “Stand up to her, Tom.  Put down your foot.  For the ship’s sake, for the mission’s sake, for the crew’s, and for your own.  And you, too, Harry.  Stop being the eternal sidekicks, both of you.  Just … just grow up.”

 

And with that, B’Elanna turned on her heels and left her office with her usual graceful stride, ostensibly to inspect the patch-up job her crew had done on a hairline fracture in the casing of the matter-antimatter conversion chamber.

 

Both men stared after her retreating small form for a while, equally glad – and not for the first time -- that compression doors didn’t have a mode for slamming.  Finally, Tom let out a sharp breath.

 

“Well,” he said, looking at Harry ruefully, “I guess we’ve been told.  And now that we’ve established who’s _really_ the boss on this ship …”

 

He let the thought trail off; they sat together for several minutes longer, as the silence between them changed from stunned to thoughtful.

 

“You know, she kind of has a point, Har.  I gotta admit, after the Gettysburg evac … having to decide in what order … “ Tom’s voice cracked for a moment.  “That whole decision-making shtick rather lost its appeal just then.  Awfully tempting to just let someone else take responsibility.  Especially someone you’re used to trusting with that kind of thing, and who’s so damn _good_ at it.”

 

Harry nodded, slowly.  “Yeah.  I know how you feel.  That first time I was supposed to be running things, on the Nightingale …  I mean … Yeah.”

 

Snorting a little contemptuously, Tom added, “Now I know how Miral felt when she took her first steps.  She always ended up either clutching my legs, or B’Elanna’s.  You were on the Enterprise then, so you missed that phase.  At first we thought it was great – here our kid is up and walking, at nine months.  Genius, right?  But then she never took more than three steps at a time, for several weeks.  Three steps – and _clutch_.  Every time.  Until I finally got the idea that I should just be moving back when she came for the grab.  And – bam – she took six steps, then ten, and the next day she was chasing me around my parents’ backyard.”

 

Like Harry before him, Tom inspected his fingernails for a moment, looking for an answer – or at the very least, a temporary spine-stiffening agent.  It must have been there somewhere, as his voice was much firmer when he asked, “So -- you up for a spot of repositioning, Commander?”

 

Still shell-shocked into silence by B’Elanna’s outburst, Harry could only nod at first.  Finally, he admitted, “You know, Libby’s been hinting at pretty much the same thing.  When I told her that I let Janeway have my chair on the bridge.  Said I just got there, and shouldn’t give it up so quickly.  You think they talked to each other?”

 

“I’m not sure women _need_ to talk.  Some stuff they seem to just know … by osmosis, or something.  It’s gotta be a gender thing.” 

 

Tom went over to the small replicator B’Elanna kept in her office and called for a cup of Earl Grey.  He felt like asking for something stronger, but there were still too many hours in the working day, and if he was back in the decision-making game, he’d better do it sober.

 

“So,” Harry asked.  “What are you gonna do?  Talk to her?  Confront her?”

 

“Nope.  Don’t see the point in that.  I’ll cross that bridge – literally – when we come to it.  I’ll just need you to back me up if and when we do get there.  I assume I can count on my First Officer?”

 

“Yes, sir,” came the clipped answer.  And a smile, small, but determined, blossomed on Harry Kim’s face as together they headed out of Engineering, contemplating the costs -- and the occasional benefits -- of emancipation.

 

…..

 

Putting down your foottended to be a lot easier in theory than in practice, Tom knew from long, exasperating experience -- especially when it came to admirals.  As it turned out, though, a quick call was all it took to confirm that Admiral Janeway was quite prepared to have Tom participate in her discussions with the Denarians and Talari, so that he would be able to brief his own team afterwards. 

 

His argument that the war had now touched Starfleet, despite its neutrality status, and that she could not represent that interest _and_ stay neutral as mediator, was convincing even to him.  But her ready acceptance of his gentle reminder that _he_ would call the briefing for his senior staff afterwards confirmed to him at least one thing:  Janeway’s temporary ‘takeover’ of the bridge had probably been just as unconscious and reflexive as his surrender of it had been.  He and Harry exchanged a “that was easy” look when he switched off the comm link.

 

Tom was replaying the little scene in his mind as he headed towards the holodeck, where the discussions with the Parties had been called.  Maybe – just maybe – B’Elanna and Mike had overreacted? 

 

But deep down he knew that they hadn’t.  He and Harry had been all too ready to hand over the reins to Janeway; Kathryn had just as readily re-assumed the Captain’s role and only Ayala, who had silently observed them all throughout the years, had apparently thought to question this development. 

 

In other words, the signs of a potential problem had all been there, and he’d simply been too frazzled to notice it. 

 

His earlier discussion with Janeway on conflict prevention came back to Tom, unbidden.  She had been right; prevention was where you made sure something wouldn’t happen, or nipped something in the bud before it got out of hand.  But it was devilish hard to verify when it succeeded -- much easier to assign blame for failure to pay attention.  People smart enough to flush at the right time would never get the credit when there was no shit available to hit the fan.  He’d have to make sure to have a chat with Ayala when he got the chance, and thank the man.

 

And stay on his toes himself.

 

He shook off this self-indulgent line of thinking as soon as the turbolift doors opened on Deck 5.  With Holodeck One reserved as a children’s recreation area for the time being, Holodeck Two had been designated as the negotiating facility.  Chell had called up tables in a rectangular arrangement (“diplomatic configuration Delta”), which would enable the Denarian and Talari delegations to face one another, with enough space in between to make throttling impracticable if not impossible.  Janeway would be presiding at the one of the short ends, with Tom across from her at the other.

 

Tom rolled his distaste for what was to come around his mouth, almost savouring its bitterness.  The room was Spartan, with minimal decorations; somehow, giving a nod to beauty here seemed inappropriate.  Then an idea struck him, and he went about its execution with grim efficiency.

 

“Computer, create holographic images of Starfleet vessels, as follows:  The _Farragut._ The _Enterprise C._   The _Melbourne._   The _Yamaguchi._ The _Hiroshima_.  The _Gettysburg._ Place the last one on the wall behind where I’ll be sitting, at the South end.  The rest random distribution.”

 

He watched the images pop into existence, one by one.  “Now place the Denarian state insignia on the starboard table, the Talari sigil on the port.  Federation flag on the North end, and Starfleet flag opposite.”

 

The symbolism would probably be lost to their ‘guests’, of course, who had no knowledge of Starfleet sacrifice past or present.  But sometimes a point was worth making just for one’s own sake.  Every time one of the aliens would look in his direction, they’d have to look at the image of the _Gettysburg_ over his head, in direct line of sight with the Starfleet flag _._   _You want diplomatic theatre?  You got it …_ Tom nodded slowly to himself, just short of satisfaction.  

 

“Efficient layout.  Interesting choice of decoration.”  The familiar, gravelly voice disrupted his thinking.  He swung around.

 

“Yeah, well.”  There really wasn’t much else he felt like saying about the matter, and he was fresh out of the energy necessary to make something up.  “Seem okay for what you need?”

 

“Just fine, thanks, Tom.  And … just thanks.  I haven’t had the chance to say that since you pulled us out.  That was not an easy choice to make.” 

 

He shrugged.  “We do what we can, I guess.  Do what we have to.  You know that better than most.”

 

She tried to catch and hold his eyes, frowning a little when he made it hard, for reasons she couldn’t quite understand.

 

“Can I ask you a question?”

 

“Of course, _Admiral.”_

 

She let out a slow breath at the deliberate formality; it was clear that the question she was about to ask did not come easily.  “When you decided to evacuate the Gettysburg, why _did_ you choose the negotiations as your first target?  Via my comm badge?  I checked the logs.  You saved my life before all the others.”

 

Finally, he looked at her, bright blue eyes locking into grey with something akin to a challenge.

 

“The mission,” he said curtly.  “Why else?  We’re here supposedly to make peace in this sector.  For that, you need the peace makers.”

 

“Ah.  Good thinking, _Captain._ ”

 

“Glad you concur.  One thing I learned from you, I guess.  The mission comes first.”

 

A wordless glance passed between them, an understanding.  One officer to another.  Words spoken now, and long ago.

 

_You saved my life before all the others._

 

 _I would have shot you down_.

 

Executive decision-making – it always cut both ways in Starfleet.  Nothing personal, really.  No favours.  Never. 

 

_Never?_

 

Kathryn swallowed then, her eyes blinking rapidly for a moment.  More words.  _Well then, I guess I’m yours …_

 

“Its good you got the children, at least.”

 

“Not all of them.  A couple of the older ones were working on an assignment in engineering.”

 

There he was, the old Tom -- deflecting praise, however oblique, yet again.  But whatever Kathryn might have said in response (if there was a response to be made) was lost in the opening whoosh of the door.  Two members of the security team appeared, positioning themselves on either side of the door to admit the Talari delegation.

 

The Supreme Talon, Naldar, strode in, conveying a sense of confidence the man couldn’t possibly feel, Tom was convinced -- given that only a very short while before he had been called a traitor and almost turned into ash by one of his own people.  He wore a flowing gown, gathered and heightened around his shoulders, in a manner that forcibly reminded Tom of the Romulans’ ridiculous attempts to look more imposing by inserting curtain rods into their uniforms. 

 

Naldar’s dark grey, almost charcoal eyes flitted from one side of the table to the other, no doubt prepared to find fault with the arrangements.  He turned to his sidekick whispering urgently in his ear; the man nodded furiously and obsequiously in response.

 

But it was the next three delegates to enter the room that drew Tom’s interest.  They were of similar height and athletic built, clearly identifiable as military despite the lack of obvious – to him, at least -- rank insignia.  The two males slowed down slightly, in step, to permit the female to enter before them, readily establishing both the hierarchy between them and the discipline that bound them together.

 

Talith, Marshall of the Talari Expeditionary Forces, also known as the _Scourge of Kyven_ , was not physically imposing, but it was clear by her posture that she would be ready to respond to any attack.  She carried herself like a fencer, Tom thought unexpectedly: shoulders deliberately relaxed, stance perfectly balanced and her centre still and tight; she would be able to uncoil into a surprise attack with lightning speed. 

 

Her eyes, light-grey and as translucent and as sharp as shards of moonstone, scanned the room -- slowly, methodically, comprehensively.  Unfamiliar with holodeck simulations, Talith was clearly assessing the location’s tactical vulnerabilities and possible advantages, before she would consider entering more deeply into the space. 

 

Tom recognized the process; it was one he had perfected during the years he had spent frequenting shady bars.  Immediately, the mere idea that he might have something in common with this woman repulsed him with a ferocity he found surprising.  And yet … something in the dispassionate manner in which she took her seat, once she had satisfied herself that there were no secret openings from which sudden assassins could spring forth, made him recall Janeway’s comment how much Marshall Talith reminded her of Fleet Admiral Nacheyev.  He shook off the thought in favour of his deep resentment of her presence on his ship.

 

Naldar and Talith took the central seats at the Talari side of the table, while their respective assistants spread note PADDs – or something close – in front of them.  Both made a show of not looking up when the door opened again.

 

Schmidt entered the room with another member of the security squad; the look of distaste on the Ensign’s face would have been almost comical had it not been for Tom’s recognition of the man who followed the ensign in, boots heavy on the holodeck floor. 

 

Supreme Marshall Qorath had obviously no compunction about entering ahead of the notional Head of the Denarian delegation; he practically shouldered President Karon aside on his way into the room.  The man’s eyes were cold and unblinking, and pure malice exuded from a face that appeared frozen in a perpetual sneer.  When he had first encountered Qorath on Denaros, Tom had considered his to be the kind of visage he might program into future installments of _Captain Proton_ , but had almost immediately rejected the idea.  Some things were too clichéd for even the trashiest of adolescent fantasies... 

 

Once the Denarians were seated – not without vociferous complaints about the lack of space between chairs and the level of lighting in the room – Janeway opened the meeting.  Almost immediately, Qorath, accompanied by vigorous nodding from his aides, demanded to know why there was a uniformed Starfleet officer at the table.  Captain Gallagher had entered only on invitation, and only for select sessions or to answer logistical questions, he thundered; Captain Paris was a stranger to the proceedings and had no business seated in the discussions.  He glared at the image of the Gettysburg over Tom’s head, and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest in the apparently universal gesture of finality and inflexibility.

 

Talith slightly lifted two fingers of her hand to request the floor, which Janeway gave her with a simple nod.  Clearly, Tom figured, it paid to let both sides have their say on any given point before responding to either.  Tit for tat.  Tac-tac-tac, like the song of the blades in the fencing _salle_.  Then make the call.

 

Tom waited for Talith’s attack; it never came.

 

“Before you address the _Supreme Marshall’s_ complaint” – Talith’s stress on her counterpart’s title was just enough to infuse it with her evident contempt for the man – “allow me, on behalf of the military component of the Talari delegation, to express our sincere thanks for the … beam-out following the terrorist attack on the Gettysburg, and to express my equally sincere condolences on the loss of your colleagues.”

 

She turned to Tom, addressing him directly now, in a voice that rang clear and firm.  “It cannot have been an easy decision, Captain, to choose our delegations over your own Starfleet comrades, in the limited time you had to effect a rescue.  We appreciate the professionalism and the dedication of your crew to their mission.  I am also personally grateful for the arrangements you have made for myself and my men onboard your ship, at such short notice.”

 

With these words Talith inclined her head towards Tom, allowing her eyes to rest on his for as long as he permitted it, and folded her hands on the table in front of her.  Almost against his will he found himself returning her token bow, wondering as he did so whether it was to acknowledge her gracious manners, or out of admiration for the ease with which she had seized the high ground from her Denarian counterpart.  Naldar remained grimly silent, but nodded his assent.

 

Karon, the Denarian president, was no fool; a consummate politician, he immediately and fastidiously echoed Talith’s comments, all the while ignoring Qorath’s insolent stare.  It was clear to Tom that there was little love lost between the two lead Denarian representatives, although their respective subordinates seemed to have no such issues.  The three of them, two military and one civilian, were whispering animatedly to one another, as if ignorant of – or deliberately disregarding -- the importance of the discussions that were about to begin.

 

Rather than waste time allowing for more posturing -- and remembering his wife’s lecture on asserting himself -- Tom took the floor with an apologetic side glance at Janeway, and a considerably frostier one at Qorath.

 

“Since Starfleet’s presence appears to be questioned here, I’ll respond to Qorath’s challenge, for ruling by Admiral Janeway in her role as mediator.”

 

He squared his shoulders at Janeway’s imperceptible nod.  Whatever his intentions, she appeared willing to give him some leeway, and he felt himself heartened by her trust.  When it came to inter-planetary diplomacy, Tom couldn’t really pretend to be a virgin anymore – certainly no more than Harry Kim could claim to have been a green ensign beyond his first four weeks or so in the Delta Quadrant – even if staring down the Andorian emperor hadn’t been diplomacy so much as a stylized form of blackmail _._

_And just how’s what you’re about to do any different?  Oh, hell.  Whatever.  Focus, Tom._

 

He cleared his throat.

 

“Starfleet may not have had a role in these negotiations before now, and frankly we didn’t want one.  We still have no interest in the settlement between your two peoples, beyond advancing the cause of peace.  But there seems to be a new player in the game, with interests we haven’t quite determined yet, and Starfleet has just been attacked by them.  So now we do have an interest – both to make sure we can still fulfill our mission to protect these negotiations, and to make sure that no such attack happens again.”

 

He paused, not for impact but because he was painfully aware that he should probably have cleared his next point with Janeway in advance, and had no idea how she would react.

 

“I also intend to ensure that the perpetrators of the murderous attack on the Gettysburg are brought to justice.”  He paused again, this time, he had to admit, to allow his next words to register. 

 

“There is no justification for attacks on those not involved in a conflict, whether they’re innocent civilians, or people sent to keep the peace as a neutral party.”

 

The protection of civilians and non-combatants:  Principles forged in the blood and the pain of five-hundred-year-old wars on his home planet; part of the founding values of the Federation. 

 

_Take that maxim and swallow it whole, and I don’t care who feels threatened by it …_

 

Janeway shot Tom an inscrutable look through narrowed eyes, one he avoided by studying a PADD in front of him.  Qorath and the Supreme Talon, in an unprecedented show of consensus, both leaned back in their seats, as if what they had heard had nothing to do with them.  Qorath continued to glare at Tom while Talith, for her part, seemed focused on the image of the Gettysburg behind him, but gave nothing else away. 

 

 _That woman would make a great poker player,_ Tom thought briefly.  Not that he ever planned to find out.

 

Karon broke the silence, a little sourly and after some very obvious, very careful calculation. 

 

“Captain Paris was present on Denaros when we agreed to having these negotiations on a Starfleet vessel.  He was not disruptive, as I recall.  I have no objections to his presence.  As to his ambitions … that is another matter.  Doubtless there will be some discussion.”

 

Kathryn turned to Naldar.  Like President Karon before him, the Supreme Talon visibly weighed the benefits of keeping the number of witnesses to the negotiations to a minimum, against offending the man on whose ship they were currently housed.  There followed fifteen or so minutes of painful, exhaustive exegesis of historical precedent and pompous speculation on the imaginary repercussions of breaking with same.  Tom found himself just about ready to succumb to the urge to send a message to Kathryn, via his PADD, on hot air and the need for environmental controls, when Naldar – surprisingly -- conceded the point.

 

Janeway wasted no time seizing on the fragile tendrils of consensus, and ruled that Captain Paris could remain in the room as an observer.  She did not, however, mention Tom’s rather more substantive comment.  His lips twitched and he took a deep breath, ready to remind her, but caught her warning glare and desisted.  His statement was on the table, and there it would remain until someone expressly took it off.

 

“Before we continue the discussion, though, I would like to hear what you know of these so-called ‘Children of Talasar’.  They are not Denarian, so I am directing my questions first to the Talari delegation.”

 

She directed the computer to dim the lights and to project a holopgraphic replay of the transmission into the centre of the table arrangement.  When it had run its course she looked around for volunteers to comment.  Her eyes stopped at Talith.

 

“You seem to be the only person in this room of whom he has a reasonably high opinion, Marshall.  Do you know this man?”

 

The Talari soldier’s eyes narrowed with concentration as she looked again at the frozen image.  Tom detected no prevarication in her voice when she spoke. 

 

“He looks somewhat familiar, but I do not recall his name.  I believe he is, or was, a mid-level officer in the unit tasked with defending the outer colonies.  As you can see, he is no longer wearing our uniform.”

 

Janeway looked to Naldar, whose posturing as early as their first meeting had been consistent with that of a man who was playing to an audience, rather than speaking from his own convictions.  “Not everyone on your world wants you to make peace.  Do these ‘Children’ belong to any opposition group you know of?”

 

Naldar started to huff himself up, presumably to assert that there was no opposition to his rule in any of the Talari worlds, but was stilled by the hand laid on his arm by Talith, who whispered something in his ear.  He gave her what even with Talari features was clearly a dirty look, and clenched his jaw for a moment before speaking.

 

His answer, when it came, was uncustomarily short and to the point.  “We have some intelligence about such a group forming in the outer colonies, but this is the first time we have come face to face with them.”

 

Tom looked straight at Talith now, his revulsion set aside momentarily since she, more than anyone, seemed actually prepared to share substantive and tactically useful information. 

 

“That ship was capable of going Warp 8, and its interior looked pretty sophisticated.  My officers are analyzing it now.  One of yours?”

 

The two officers stared at one another, Fleet Marshall and Captain, pale silver eyes boring into blue.  Janeway pretended not to take too keen an interest, but Tom knew better; he noticed that she was holding herself very still in anticipation of the answer.  He suppressed a smug smile.

 

Much depended on the answer, he knew.  If Talith says yes and it was a Talari ship, they would not need to be here now, negotiating for peace.  The Talari could dictate their terms for an unconditional surrender to the Denarians today, based on the superior mobile assets, combined with the Scourge.

 

But if she said no, that would raise a host of new questions, not the least of which the potential existence of a third party.

 

“No.  We also had no knowledge that they had mobile assets.” 

 

Tom let out a slow breath.  _A game changer, indeed._ Someone was providing ships to the ‘Children of Talasar’.  Who? __

“Liar,” Qorath roared, oblivious to the magnitude -- and the implications -- of his counterpart’s concession, and banged the table in front of him with his fist.

 

Both Janeway and Tom ignored him, exchanging quick glances instead.  If Talith was in a confessing mood … 

 

It was Kathryn’s turn to hold the Talari Marshall’s eyes. 

 

“The weapons.  How many are missing from your arsenal?  Assuming you have kept track?” 

 

Clearly there was no point in asking Talith how many of the weapons her own forces had manufactured, or how many they had left.  With this careful phrasing, they might actually get a response.  Tom suppressed another smile; in the course of the events of the last day, he had almost forgotten how well he and Kathryn could play together when called upon.

 

Again, Talith responded, this time directly to the Admiral, pointedly ignoring an increasingly fidgety Naldar.  Tom couldn’t help but wonder whether the head of the Talari fleet had decided that the Supreme Talon was sufficiently weakened politically, that she could – or must -- play her own game around this table.  If so, what was it?

 

“We had a report that two of the weapons had been damaged in the manufacture and were not … sufficiently effective.  They were removed for destruction.  The possibility exists that were diverted instead.”

 

Not sufficiently effective.  Tom refused to allow his mind to dwell on what exactly that meant, and focused on the tactical implications of what they had been told.  If there had been only two, that left one.  Most likely aimed at Voyager now, out there, beyond the curtain.  And an unknown arms dealer, somewhere in the shadows. __

But before anyone had a chance to comment on what they had heard, Harry Kim’s voice broke into the room, clear and calm but with that special timbre that it acquired only in serious emergencies.

 

“Kim to Paris.  Captain to the bridge.  There are signs that the anomaly is becoming unstable.”

 

 ___________________________________________

 

NOTE:  Without getting too deep into some of the more arcane rules of foil fencing (where some moves have priority over others), the “ _arr_ _êt”_ is best described as a “stop hit”. 

 

At its most basic, a stop hit is a sudden counter move that catches a would-be attacker flat-footed, or in mid-preparation.  In the hands of an expert, it is a deliberate exercise of exquisite timing that can leave the attacker impaled, like a butterfly on a pin, and feeling like an idiot.

Then again, it can just be the result of an accident, or someone completely ignorant of the rules of the game sticking out his or her arm and getting lucky.


	8. Feinte

“Report.”

 

“The subspace distortions are increasing, with new fissures emerging at irregular intervals and in unpredictable locations.  These are beginning to place stresses on the hull, including on areas still under repair.  Moreover, the entre rift appears to be expanding and contracting at random.” 

 

Asil’s description, as arid as her home planet, greeted Tom as soon as he entered the bridge.

 

“What do you mean, _expanding and contracting at random_?  Bottom line, it’s getting bigger overall?”

 

“It is, sir,” Icheb chimed in from the science station.  “But at unpredictable intervals.  Intermittently it shrinks again, but never back to its previous size.”

 

“Analysis?”  Tom already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it from his experts in case he had missed something.

 

Harry looked up from his chair.  “Meaning that very soon Voyager will find itself far deeper in the interior of the rift that we had planned.  We’re already detecting increased ion fluctuations and theta radiation, and are expecting greater gravimetric pressures and the threat of plasma turbulences and sudden shears.  Hull integrity could be fatally compromised.  We haven’t finished our repairs and are still pretty vulnerable.”

 

Tom nodded to himself, and cursed under his breath.  This was almost like being back in the Delta Quadrant, where the frying pan was almost always co-located with the fire.  _What would Janeway …_   No. 

 

“Great.  How long do we have?”

 

“At the present rate of progress and based on the mean of the observed data, the ship will be torn apart at the earliest within eight hours, seventeen minutes and forty-seven seconds.” 

 

“Give or take, given the unpredictability.  There are some unknown variables.” 

 

“Thanks, Harry.  Let’s try and make it ‘give’, but plan for ‘take’.”  Tom punched his comm badge. 

 

“Senior officers to the bridge, immediately.”

 

…..

 

 

Tom looked around the briefing room.  All his officers were present with the exception of the EMH, who was still looking after patients in Sickbay.  Following the Doctor’s acerbic reminder that he was quite capable of multi-tasking, though, Ayala had opened a simple vidcom link to allow him to listen in.  He wove in and out of the picture as he moved around Sickbay.

 

“This reminds me of the days before I had my mobile emitter,” the EMH commented to Nurse Tval, either oblivious to or blithely ignoring the fact that his every comment was transmitted into the briefing room.  He ran a dermal regenerator over Ensign Walczinsky, one of the engineers who had sustained extensive deep-tissue burns and was on his third round of treatment. 

 

“I had to _fight_ to be included in briefings, despite my position and the obvious advantage of having access to my unique …”

 

“Doc, do you mind?”  Tom interrupted him rather sharply, too impatient to even feel relief at the fact that he could.  “You can wax nostalgic over the bad old days some other time.  We’ve got work to do here, and so do you.”

 

He leaned over to Harry.  “Is the Admiral coming?”

 

The sound of the whooshing door, followed by Kathryn’s gravelly voice, pre-empted an answer.

 

“Mind if I join you?” 

 

“Of course not,” Tom replied, ignoring a slightly baleful look he got from B’Elanna that softened a little when it became clear that neither Harry nor Tom would budge from their seats this time.  Without comment, Kathryn sat down at the other end of the table.  She looked around the briefing room briefly as if intrigued by the slightly different perspective, but waited for Tom to open the session. 

 

“Let’s recap, and keep it simple.  We can’t stay in the anomaly for much longer without risking the ship breaking apart.  But as soon as we leave, we have a cloaked ship waiting for us, with a suicidal fanatic aboard who intends to destroy Voyager unless we meet his demands.  We can’t rely on our sensors to pick him up before he spots us, and we already know their vessels can’t be detached once they leech on to the hull.  Starfleet won’t receive any calls for help for at least a day, given the subspace distortions.  And I’m not aware of any ships in the vicinity except for the Al Bataani.  And _she’s_ limping in the opposite direction on her way to dry dock, thanks to problems of her own.  Problems she developed in the same anomaly we’re now in.  Anyone else have any bad news to impart, or does that about sum it up?”

 

There was reluctant nodding around the table.  “Don’t quote me,” the Doctor chimed in caustically from the screen.  “But this _does_ have a ring of the Delta Quadrant to it.”

 

Tom deliberately ignored the comment, especially since he’d had the identical thought mere minutes ago.  The day that he and the EMH started to think alike was probably, as the Klingons would have it, _A Good Day To Die_.

 

“Do you think they’ll really try and blow up Voyager?”  Harry asked.  “Destroying one Starfleet vessel could be regarded as the act of an isolated madman.  Doing it twice is almost certain to get Starfleet involved.  That can’t be what they want.  Besides, they seem to think of Talith as some kind of hero.  Wouldn’t they want to make sure she doesn’t get killed?”

 

“These so-called Children of Talasar appear to consider death a noble price to pay in the name of their goals.  It would be logical to infer that they will be more than prepared to allow Marshall Talith to pay that same price regardless of what they said,” Asil responded.  “They did not hesitate when they knew she was on the Gettysburg.” 

 

“You’re probably right, Asil, although the whole thing lacks a logical basis, as far as I can see.  We simply don’t have enough information to know why they did what they did, and what their next move might be.”

 

Tom cast a sideways look at Janeway, who shrugged her agreement, not having managed to obtain any additional information in the meantime _._ She did, however, have an opinion.

 

“The motives of extremists are difficult to fathom, but if their main goal is to disrupt the peace negotiations, that will inevitably succeed.  No action Starfleet could take will change that.”

 

Tom nodded thoughtfully.

 

“So for now, we know we can’t stay here, and we have to assume that Voyager will be targeted as soon as she emerges from the anomaly.  What can we do to protect her?  Shields are ineffective against the scourge, and we can’t withstand another concussive wave until after we’ve finished our repairs.  I could use some bright ideas, here, folks.”

 

“Sir, if I may suggest …”  Icheb was hesitant, but gathered his confidence when Tom nodded.  “Our _current_ shield configuration is ineffective.  But as you yourself pointed out, the primary effects of the scourge do not appear capable of travelling through water.”

 

“And?  Last time I looked, there wasn’t an ocean nearby for us to dive into.”

 

“I do not believe we require an ocean, sir.  If we could reconfigure our shield harmonics to resonate to imitate the phasic frequencies of the H2O molecule, we would …”

 

“… at least buy ourselves enough time to go to warp.  I think it’s a brilliant idea, Tom.  I can have a team working on it immediately, with Icheb’s help.”  B’Elanna smiled approvingly at the young Benali.

 

Tom nodded at B’Elanna in turn.  “Agreed.  Go for it, but hold on for another minute.  There’s something else I’ll need your help with.  I have an idea.”

 

The rudimentary plan had materialized in his head as he waited for his officers to gather.  He could practically hear Picard’s cultivated, staccato tones in his head:  _If you signal your move the way you just did, your opponent can see your intention from a mile away.  Do that only when you want him to see, in order to lure him in.  Expose the target he wants, to draw the attack, then parry and riposte…._

“We’ll give them what they want.  The Denarians, and Naldar.  We’ll show our willingness to hand them over via the Flyer; they will readily believe that we wouldn’t want to risk Voyager to do that.  Then, when they’re busy going after the Flyer, we should have a clear shot at them.  Your basic feint.”

 

“And how will you get them to go after you?  They won’t just accept your word.  And what if there’s more than one of them?”  Ayala leaned forward eagerly.  Cat and mouse games were a favourite tactic of the Maquis, but he couldn’t see the play yet. 

 

No one around the table, not even B’Elanna, questioned the security officer’s assumption that Tom would pilot the shuttle himself. 

 

“Based on what Talith said, they probably only have one more of those ‘scourge’ weapons.  And the two they got aren’t as powerful as the ones used on Denaros.”

 

Tom wasn’t quite sure why, but he knew the Talari Marshall had told the truth, both about the number and quality of the weapons that were unaccounted for.  Perhaps it was her similarity to Nacheyev, but however much he wanted to loathe the woman, his gut told him she could be trusted in this.  He shivered a little at the thought.

 

Ayala nodded, and continued his original thought. 

 

“They came here prepared to melt Voyager, and so I assume they’ve got it onboard that one ship.  But they may also try and take the Flyer down with conventional weapons.  I’m guessing they have some decent assets for smart sting operations, like that ship that chased us, just not perhaps enough to mount a multi-pronged campaign.  So as for your feint …”

 

“You’d need some pretty convincing bait to draw whoever is out there,” Janeway finished Ayala’s sentence, her eyes betraying her mild amusement at the blithe nonchalance with which the Lieutenant drew on his own terrorist past for his tactical assessments.  He had never said much when she commanded Voyager, but she had always suspected there was a sharp mind behind the quiet reliability that allowed him to somehow always appear in the right place at the right time.  She briefly wondered what it was in Tom Paris that had managed to draw the man so completely out of his shell.

 

“These Children appear to have more sophisticated technology than the Talari forces.  And based on my personal experience with their approach to cooperation and collaboration, the people you would need to have onboard aren’t going to come along willingly.”

 

“Holograms.”  Tom cast an apologetic look at the EMH, who frowned in reflexive indignation.  “They’ll be very crude, non-sentient, Doc, no worries.  The kind you always cast aspersions on, like my characters in Sandrine’s.  Except … with features our extremist friends will recognize.”

 

“Holograms, Tom?  What if they can detect life signs and find only humans onboard? Assuming the Cap …. The _Admiral_ is right?” 

 

Tom suppressed an involuntary – and slightly vindictive -- smirk at B’Elanna’s _faux pas,_ even as he was grateful that she did not question his apparent intention to deliver the bait himself.  At least not in front of the entire senior staff.  He turned to Janeway.

 

“Do we know whether they might have that technology, Admiral?  You’ve read more of the briefings on what’s available in this sector, and you spent a lot of time talking to both sides.”

 

Janeway, who had remained mostly silent but keenly focused during the discussion, shook her head. 

 

“No, I don’t know whether they d or not.  But until this morning we also didn’t know that anyone from Denaros or Talar had a ship capable of going Warp Eight.”

 

“I have conducted a preliminary analysis of the interior of the vessel, Captain, from the images on the view screen.  Based on the console configuration, it appears to have been equipped with Federation propulsion technology, in addition to the Romulan-origin cloaking capacity we encountered.” 

 

There were some sharp intakes of breath around the table at Asil’s observation.  “Accordingly, it is logical to assume that it may possess other Federation capabilities.”

 

“Makes sense to me.  I wonder who gave them that ship, anyway.”  Baytart chimed in, “It didn’t look like any of the ones they’ve got in their fleets, and I don’t recognize the model.  It seems like a bit of a cross between a Class Five shuttle, a Rigellian racer and something I haven’t seen before.”

 

“Good point,” Harry said.  “Do make a search of all our data bases and see what you come up with.  Even a partial fingerprint could be helpful.”

 

He frowned a little.  “We should also be asking ourselves how and when they became aware that the delegations made it onboard Voyager.  Either they _can_ detect and differentiate life signs -- or someone told them.”

 

_Someone onboard Voyager._

The officers looked at one another in consternation.  They had permitted the delegates one transmission home each; given the proximity of their home worlds, these would have reached the intended recipients long before Voyager’s messages would ever get to Starfleet …

 

Asil nodded in Harry’s direction; she too understood the impact of his observation.  “We will track the all transmissions made from the delegates’ quarters.

 

“Good.  Thanks.  Back to the hologram idea.  Is there any way we can imitate life signs to make them look real?”  Tom looked around the table, then at the screen, where the EMH stared at him with a pained expression on his face.

 

“Not imitate,” Ayala offered.  “ _Echo_.  We could create an echo of _existing_ life signs.  Old Maquis trick, to make your forces look like more than they are.  Serves to scatter any defenders, when they go after the illusions.  Of course you need portable holo-emitters.”

 

“I hope you don’t intend to use me, or _my_ emitter, in whatever reckless and foolish experiment this might lead to,” the Doctor said.  He was sufficiently indignant to have remembered the location of the reciprocal vid outlet and stood before it now, arms akimbo and jaw clenched tightly. 

 

“I _vividly_ remember when you tried to use holo-technology to create extra ships to fool the Kazon or some other thuggish race, and thanks to s _omeone’s_ lack of foresight” – he glared at B’Elanna through the transmitter – “ _I_ ended up floating in space.”

 

B’Elanna, who in turn had been staring at – or perhaps through -- Ayala as his words triggered a memory, dismissed the EMH’s comment with a quick glance at the screen. 

 

“Don’t worry, Doctor, that’s not how it works.  You need the regular kind of emitters, like the ones we installed or you around the ship, before you got the one from Starling.  Also, you can’t work this trick with just holograms.  You need a genuine life sign to duplicate.  Also, as I recall, the most echoes you can create off any one person is two or three.  Isn’t that right, Mike?”

 

Ayala nodded.  “And it’s best done in a relatively confined space.  A spaceship, a shuttle …”

 

“… or a Cardassian mining operation you’re trying to infiltrate,” B’Elanna flashed a grin at the big Lieutenant as they exchanged a wordless reminiscence across the table. 

 

“If I remember correctly, it helps if you flood the immediate location with Thoron particles, which hamper tricorder readings and make it easier for the deception to stick.  That’s easy to arrange.”

 

Tom nodded enthusiastically.  “So, if you create holograms that correspond to the number of echoes you’ve created, the overall effect for someone checking you out on sensors or on a visual screen would be to create the illusion of a complete complement of individuals, even if you only have a handful of organic ones aboard.  See, I knew you guys would come up with a way to make this work.  All we need is to be able to hold and distract them for about five minutes, to allow Voyager time to get out of the anomaly.” 

 

He sobered momentarily, looking at Janeway.  “The only thing that remains will be to convince the Denarians and the Talari to lend us someone from their delegations as the base for the echoes.  Guess that’ll be your job?” 

 

Tom managed to turn that last into a question rather than a directive, but armed it with one of those smiles he had practiced from the age of three - the same one he had deployed successfully when selling Kathryn on the role of Arachnia, Queen of the Spider People.  Resistance would be futile.

 

“I thought you’d ask,” she responded drily, knowing full well what he was doing, and hating to admit that it was working already.  “Happy to oblige, but I have to warn you:  getting these folks to do anything on a voluntary basis is easier said than done.”

 

“And we’ll have to keep them away from any access to the comms system after you have,” Harry added.  “In case they _were_ talking to these people out there.”

 

Ayala and Asil exchanged wordless glances.  There would not be another unauthorized – or at least unmonitored -- transmission from this ship.  Not if they could help it.

 

…..

 

“Absolutely not.”  Qorath’s voice was a growl, and his yellow eyes flashed in indignation.  Tall for a Denarian, with shoulders almost twice as wide as Tom’s and in no need of the augmentation favoured by his President, he looked not only capable of throwing his weight around but more than willing to do so.  His ham-like fists landed on the table with a resounding crash.

 

“I will not give in to blackmail from a bunch of Talari _…_ ” the word that followed was accompanied by a substantial amount of spit, and the universal translator was momentarily stymied. 

 

 _A form of warthog_ \-- it finally ventured in the detached, professorial tone it reserved for explanation where verbatim translation proved impossible -- _afflicted by a parasite indigenous to Talar that results in shrinkage of the genitalia in the male and birth defects in the female._

 

If it hadn’t been for his utter revulsion at the man who had uttered the curse, Tom might have been interested in having the translator store it for future use; as it was, he simply glared back at Qorath.  He had little patience for thugs, and even less for those who refused to deploy even what limited intellectual assets they did have at their disposal.

 

“No one is giving in to blackmail here.” 

 

How he managed to keep his voice so even astonished no one more than himself.  “We’re trying to draw the enemy ship off Voyager, and we, Starfleet that is, are asking for your cooperation and participation.  It’s called _tactics_.  You‘ve led troops into battle _­_ – you might have heard of the concept.”

 

Tom’s eyes sprayed contemptuous blue-hot fire at the Denarian, as he muttered under his breath,  “ … although it requires a _tad_ more sophistication than mutilation and rape.” 

 

Janeway shot him a warning glance, to which Tom responded by lifting his chin defiantly.  As far as he was concerned he’d made a major concession to inter-planetary protocol by keeping his voice too low for the translator to pick up his comments. 

 

She saw the chin, interpreted it correctly and gave him a slightly higher calibre version of her patented glare, willing him to silence.  _You asked me to do this,_ it said, _so we’ll do this my way._

“The Captain is right,” she nonetheless confirmed, in her most soothing-yet-firm professional tone.  “This isn’t about _surrendering_ anyone to these so-called Children of Talaros.  It’s about making a plan work that will enable all of us to survive, so that we can do what is necessary to end the war between Denaros and Talar.  Something these terrorists seem to be unwilling to see happen, for some reason.”

 

She paused, her brow suddenly furrowed in concentration.  “But I suppose … in order to carry out this plan, we don’t necessarily need the Supreme Marshall himself.  Correct?”

 

Kathryn looked questioningly at Tom, who, in the way of someone witnessing a particularly disgusting spectacle, seemed unable to take his gaze off the man. 

 

“Tom?”  She reminded him of her outstanding question gently, but firmly.  He snapped out of his revulsion, considered her question, and came to the conclusion that not having to spend any time trapped on a small shuttle with this particular specimen of Denarian manhood would actually be a very good thing.

 

“According to Ayala and B’Elanna, all we need is a Denarian life sign. _Any_ Denarian life sign.  One of … the junior officials would do, I suppose, if …” 

 

He let the thought trail, the mocking light in his eyes leaving Janeway under no doubt as to what he might have added, but for a heroic exercise of self-control:  _If the Supreme Marshall is too much of a Yellow Delta Quadrant Fainting Mouse to do it himself._

 

“All we need from you, Qorath, is to sit still so we can scan your physical parameters into our holo-programmer.  Provided that is not too … much to ask?” 

 

Qorath considered the statement in silence, his eyes narrowing further as a series of calculations appeared to be taking place inside his massive skull.  What these were neither officer could fathom, but Tom hoped that his own barely masked contempt for this so-called warrior factored in the equation somewhere.

 

“That proposal is acceptable,” he finally snarled out between gritted teeth.  His eyes turned calculating for a moment.  “Major Polkath will go in my stead.  I doubt that our enemies will be as accommodating.”

 

Qorath’s aide’s yellow-green eyes widened perceptibly, but he managed a crisp bow, acknowledging his orders.

 

Tom and Kathryn took their leave immediately; the clock on the anomaly was ticking and there was no time for formal goodbyes.  Not that Tom considered the Supreme Marshall eligible for courtesy in any event.

 

 

.….

 

True to Qorath’s prediction, the Supreme Talon was less than thrilled by the prospect of being used as bait for extremists, even if they hailed from his home system.  Fortunately for him, Kathryn had already modified her approach based on the lesson learned earlier and volunteered that any Talari could act as his stand-in, if he wished not to participate personally.

 

“Supreme Marshall Qorath will be represented by his _aide de camp_ ,” she added, giving her voice a slightly conspiratorial overlay.  The reaction was both swift, and unexpected.

 

“I will go in Talon Naldar’s place.” 

 

The voice was cool and firm, almost flat, allowing no doubt, and no refusal.  Talith’s eyes, almost silver in the lowered light of the observation lounge where Janeway had called the meeting with the Talari, were hooded slightly.

 

Kathryn turned to her in silent astonishment, even as Naldar opened his mouth in protest and Tom frowned in consternation.  _What game was this woman playing?  Trying to show up her counterpart?_

 

“Marshall, you heard the Envoy.  An officer of lesser rank will do.  It is what the Denarian delegation considers acceptable.  We need do no more.  We _will_ do no more.”

 

“I am not Denarian, Naldar.  What is acceptable to them, is not necessarily so to me.”

 

Kathryn cleared her throat.  “This mission is not without danger, Marshall Talith.”

 

Talith’s sharp features creased into a slight smile, but one without the slightest spark of humour.  “That much is clear, Envoy.  Yet your Captain here is prepared to go, for the sake of his people.  Should I do less for mine, and call myself a soldier of Talar?  I will not order one of my men to do a thing I would not do myself.”

 

A competition, then, Tom concluded. _Mirror, mirror, on the wall – who’s the bravest of them all?  Ten points if you named the Scourge of Kyven over Qorath, who writes history in the blood of children._   __

Tom cast a quick glance at Janeway before testing the waters.  “These extremists, whoever they are, don’t want you … Marshall.”  _And neither do I.  The Flyer is a small ship …_

 

She responded with a dispassionate glance.

 

“Precisely, Captain.  While I understand that all you require for your immediate purpose is a generic Talari biological signature, I assume that in due course it might be helpful to reveal my presence onboard your shuttle to them.  Having me onboard might buy you – and ultimately these negotiations -- the time you need.  Besides, there is little else of use for me to do here until after the danger is passed.  Unless Admiral Janeway was planning on continuing the talks in the meantime.”

 

Tom’s mind was casting about for something to say in response to this unexpected rationale, but came up blank.  He breathed an inner sigh of relief when Janeway took the floor again.

 

“Thank you, Marshall.  A thoughtful offer.”

 

Talith turned to Tom, clearly intent on keeping the conversation to a minimum and the focus on the essentials.  He was struck again by the automaton-like quality in her voice, which reminded him a bit of Seven of Nine, at her most Borg-like. 

 

“When will you be ready to leave?”

 

Tom swallowed, and found his voice again.  “The shield conversion for Voyager will take about an hour, according to Icheb and Asil; we can’t leave before that is completed.  Mike and B’Elanna are working on the echo system; we’d need Mr. Naldar and the Denarians in the holo lab to scan in their specs -- for about five minutes each -- when they’re done. “

 

“ _Sequentially_ , of course,” he added pre-emptively, when he caught Naldar’s incipient intake of breath.  “All told, about three to four hours before departure.”

 

Talith fixed Naldar with an unblinking gaze until he nodded his approval, curtly and reluctantly.  One of Naldar’s aides, a mid-level officer named Rakol whose main distinguishing feature seemed to be a pronounced partiality for flamboyantly coloured scarves, spoke up, a note of urgency in his voice.

 

“If the Marshall is willing to risk her life for the sake of us all, so be it.  Her glory will be sung in Talar ever more zealously.  We should, however, advise the Home World of the plan.”  He glanced over at Tom and Kathryn accusingly.  “But regrettably, we appear to have been cut off all communications, Supreme Talon.”

 

“My apologies,” Tom’s reply was as quick and smooth as it was insincere.  “Unfortunately the changed emissions from the anomaly are interfering with communications.  At first it was only subspace comms, but now we can’t seem to be able to raise anything that’s more than a few billion kilometers away.”

 

Kathryn nodded in support, even if she would not herself give voice to an outright lie, in view of her current position.  “We will be hard pressed to stay in touch with the shuttle when it leaves.”

 

The aide continued to whisper in Naldar’s ear with some agitation, worrying his scarf with slightly shaking fingers, and cast what could only be considered a dirty look in Janeway’s direction.  Talith did not appear to be fazed.

 

“Very well, Captain,” she said evenly.  “I will report to your technicians for whatever it is you require to create this … this echo, and will be ready to depart when you are.”

 

…..

 

“You should consider taking Icheb, Tom,” Ayala suggested, as he and Tom were getting the Flyer ready for its departure.  The big Lieutenant was careful to preserve protocol in the presence of others, but when they were alone he had no compunction about calling his erstwhile peer by his first name.  Besides, Tom’s earlier, deliberately light-hearted and ironic “Hey, thanks for ratting me out to my wife,” had set the tone at a distinctly informal level.

 

“Cool head in a fight, that kid.  Besides, having a Brunali on board will confuse the hell out of them.  Icheb’s bio signs wouldn’t be known in these parts; they’re probably not even in many Federation databases yet.  Should help the deception.  When we were in the Maquis, we always tried to mix up our crews when we used this trick,” he said.  “Bolians, Bajorans, humans, Vulcans …”

 

“You used this with _Tuvok_?” 

 

Tom, who was doing pre-flight checks, was intrigued, especially since Tuvok had never mentioned this idea as a tactical option.  Ayala shook his head as he sat two holo emitters down in the flyer and made some minor adjustments to the setting. 

 

“Nah, he would have been too valuable for kinetic ops.”  He snorted a little.  “Or so Chakotay thought.  But by the time Tuvok joined us we’d run out of holo emitters anyway, so he never even learned about it.” __

“Speaking of tricks,” Tom said lightly as he watched B’Elanna stride through the shuttle bay towards the Flyer, a number of PADDs in her hand.  “Here comes the Grand Wizard.” 

 

He watched his wife intently as she transferred the information on the PADDs into the ops console to permit transmission of the echoes calibrated to the life signs of those on the extremists’ wish list.

 

Her ridged forehead furrowed even more deeply in concentration, she worked in silence for a few minutes, ignoring her husband’s eyes on her.

 

“There,” she said, her tone betraying the satisfaction Tom knew she always felt at a challenge conquered, regardless of the circumstances.  “Give it a run, Mike.”

 

Ayala activated the holo emitters, and all of a sudden the small cabin of the Delta Flyer seemed crowded.  Tom reached for his tricorder and waved it in a circular motion. 

 

“Nothing,” he said, concern colouring his voice.  “Just us.”

 

“We’re just checking the interface now.  You’ll need Talith and that other guy to bounce the echo off of,” B’Elanna explained patiently.  “Just having their life signs in the system isn’t enough.  They need to be close by.”

 

Tom shook his head.  “Right.  How could I forget?”  He nodded to Ayala.  “Okay, you go prep Icheb.  I’ll have a quick chat with the Chief here.”

 

He set the tricorder down and watched Ayala climb out of the Flyer, before turning to B’Elanna.

 

“Bee, I…”

 

She walked up to him and put her finger on his lips. 

 

“Sshh,” she said, the ghost of a smile playing across her full lips.  “We’ve had this conversation too often already.  Just kiss me, flyboy – then go do your thing to keep the ship and our daughter safe, and come back.”

 

B’Elanna rose on her toes a little to make up for their difference in height, crossed her hands behind his neck and pulled his head down.  Locking her eyes to his she slowly opened her mouth in invitation, waiting for him to bend more, until their lips touched.  It did not take long for his tongue to brush her lips and their kiss to deepen.  Tom’s arms encircled B’Elanna’s waist; he pulled her close until no space remained between them.  And for just one moment, the universe seemed to shrink, until it was contained in a single shared breath.

 

…..

 

The Flyer left Voyager’s shuttle bay after the usual exchanges with the bridge, now under Harry’s command.  The holograms had not yet been activated inside the cabin; no need to fill the small space with extra bodies, however lacking in organic substance, until they were needed.  They would be called upon when the shuttle emerged from the protection of the anomaly, and it was time to lay out the bait. 

 

Tom figured the Children of Talasar probably wouldn’t care about the junior members of the Denarian delegation, and leaving them behind would make the Federation appear more reluctant to make the deal.  And so the hapless Denarian ‘volunteer,’ Major Polkath, had been banished to the aft cabin immediately upon arrival, to spend his time, out of sight, in whichever way he fancied.  All that was required of him was his physical proximity, which he could provide without cluttering up the cabin and getting in the way. 

 

Talith, however, had insisted on staying in the main cabin, citing an interest in Federation technology, in particular the Flyer’s odd console and ancillary technology.  Not only that, but she had shown up in the shuttle bay early, to watch the preparations and installation of the holoemitters.  Tom suspected she was the type who just couldn’t stand not being involved -- a feeling with which he could sympathize to some extent, but that didn’t make him any happier about having her so close.

 

He had just begun to relax into the first few minutes of silent running – a time he habitually used to allow the hum of the engines to trickle into his body through his fingertips, to feel the flight – when his private moment was broken.

 

“That was your wife?  The woman I saw with you before we left?”

 

Tom didn’t quite know what to make of the rather personal query, or the voice that came from somewhere behind him.  Talith’s tone was as flat as always, and he found himself looking to get a grip on an inflection, a cadence – anything that could have helped him divine the intentions behind the question.  Somehow, the woman who had reportedly committed the single greatest act of mass murder in the Binary War did not strike him as the person to strike up a round of small talk to pass the time, in the middle of a sensitive military operation.  Nor did he feel particularly inclined to oblige her, if she was.

 

“Yes,” he replied simply and equally monotonously, intent on choking off any kind of conversation before it could take hold.  He did not turn his head.

 

Talith, however, was not so easily deterred.  He should have expected it.

 

“Do you have children?”

 

Even if he were inclined towards rudeness, which he was not, Tom Paris would not refuse to give an answer to that question.  How could you deny your life?

 

“Yes, one.  A little girl.”

 

There was no noticeable softening in Talith’s voice, even as she asked, “How old is she, in your years?”

 

“Almost three.  But she’s part Klingon, so in terms of her development she’s closer to four, for a human child.”

 

The answer, and the fact that it had gone beyond single syllables, seemed to have temporarily satisfied Talith’s inexplicable curiosity about Tom’s personal life.  For a while the cabin of the Flyer was silent, broken only by the tap-tap-tap of Icheb’s fingers on the ops console, as he was gauging the eddies and turbulences of the subspace anomaly that enveloped them, sending the information to the helm for Tom for use in any course corrections. 

 

Ayala had been right; Icheb was the right man for the job.  With Harry, Asil and Ayala all needed for the defence of Voyager, Tom could not have asked for a better second for the task at hand.

 

But after a while, to Tom’s surprise, Talith spoke again, still in that flat tone that seemed to characterize her speech.  Although now it seemed more as if the emotion had been carefully, deliberately leeched out of it before she opened her mouth.  He recognized a subtle change in her breath: the tiniest catch, suppressed out of habit and life-long practice.

 

“I had a child.  At Talasar.”

 

He turned, then, and looked, almost as if for the first time, at the woman who held herself as calm and still as ice -- this soldier of Talar.  _A mother._  And even as he seized on the convenient rationalization that he was gathering potentially useful intelligence, he knew deep down that he needed to know more, and for different reasons altogether.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“I was what you would call an ensign then.  My husband, a Lieutenant, had fallen in the battle for the Kargos moons, perished with his ship.  He never even knew I was pregnant.  When I gave birth the war was not going well, and all soldiers were needed.  I was recalled to duty after three months, and so I left Dary with my parents, on Talasar.  It was our outermost colony, and we thought it was beyond the reach of the Denarian forces.  I thought it was safe.”

 

Talith’s eyes were fixed on the viewscreen, where a new plasma eddy was forming.  Tom deftly maneuvered around it, and she waited until the moment had passed before continuing.

 

“She was two years old when they came to Talasar.  Qorath’s forces laid waste to the colony until no stone was left unturned, no scrap of wood unscorched.  But first they did whatever they could to leave their mark on the population.  By his orders, and with his enthusiastic participation.  And then they left.  Because they did not want this world; all they wanted was to destroy it, to spread terror amongst all Talari, so that we would give up the fight, and give them what they really craved.”

 

The cabin was completely silent now; Icheb had ceased his tapping for the moment, listening, his ocular implant raised as if warding off echoes from a different world, a different time.

 

“They did barbaric things, unspeakable things.  The worst were done to the children, in front of their parents.  Some of those were left to live, so that they could tell the story of Talasar and of the death of its children, and be forced to relive it all whenever they did.  My parents were not among them though.  When the Denarians left, the survivors burned all the bodies they could find so that no one would have to see what they had seen.  So that others could remember what had been, not what had been done to their children.”

 

Talith paused for a moment, eyes far away, unblinking. 

 

“My ship was the first to reach Talasar, after.  I was given my daughter’s ashes, contained in a metal pot that was all that remained of my parents’ home.”

 

She turned to Tom now, fixing him with her gaze.

 

“Of all the children of Talasar, none were left alive.”

 

The statement hung in the air of the cabin, as unanswerable as the story that preceded it. 

 

Icheb stood stockstill, not knowing for a moment what to do with his hands, until the emergence of a new plasma nodule caught his attention and he was forced to focus on his instruments again.

 

Tom rode out the resulting turbulence in silence, the Flyer dipping and banking under his hands as Talith watched, unblinking.  Finally, he was able to say what needed to be said. 

 

“I am so sorry.”

 

And to ask the question he found he needed to ask:  “Is that why you destroyed Kyven?”

 

Talith weighed her answer, not as if she had never considered it, but to ensure that the man asking it would hear the response for what it was.

 

“No.  It made it easier though.”

 

Tom nodded, slowly, the vista of the anomaly before his eyes replaced by the featureless grey of the melted continent, the dance of the ashes in the Flyer’s wake. 

 

“But it didn’t bring Dary back, did it?”

 

A long silence, followed by a soft sigh, something between regret and despair – the first real evidence of emotion Tom had been able to detect in the woman who had triggered a million deaths. 

 

“No.  No, it did not.”

 

Her statement hung in the air, seemingly unanswerable.  Icheb shifted uncomfortably at his console until Tom spoke again.

 

"Neither will sabotaging efforts to end this conflict."

 

Talith responded immediately, her voice as cool and clear as ever, but with an edge Tom had not heard in it before.

 

"You are quite correct, Captain.  And that is why I am here.  Let there be no mistake about one thing.  The man we are seeking to find claims to be speaking for the children of Talasar.  He is _not_ speaking for mine."

 

____________________________________________________ 

 

NOTE:  I think everybody can guess what “feinte” means.  Drop the ‘e’ and there you are!  But in case you have gotten used to my professorial explanations at the end, here it is:  a feint is the fencing world’s preamble to a sucker punch:  _Oh look, my weapon is pointing down there – you better parry!  Just kidding, really meant to go for up here ...  Thanks for opening that up!_

 

Of course, if your opponent has any brains at all, feints work both ways, and before you know it, you’re on the hook.

 

 

 


	9. Avertissement

The heavy silence that reigned in the Flyer was broken by a small clatter from the aft cabin, where Major Pakoth was apparently amusing himself by playing with the shuttle’s replicator. 

 

Icheb cast a questioning look at Tom, who shrugged indifferently.  He couldn’t bring himself to care what their involuntary life-sign donor was up to; they were coming close to the edge of the anomaly and not only would the flying get rough, but they would be losing their cloak.  And any consideration of their Denarian passenger vanished when Icheb detected the expected signature on his long-range sensors.

 

“Alien vessel under cloak, one-point-two billion kilometers at vector nine-oh-seven-four,” he announced.  “The weapons signature is identical to that of the ship that pursued us, and the coordinates are consistent with the area where Voyager encountered it.”

 

Tom nodded, as the all-too-familiar outpouring of adrenaline sharpened his senses and sped up his heart rate.  How often had he felt this surge before?  Almost by instinct he flexed his fingers, felt them curl around the comforting coolness of the weapons controls.

 

He willed himself to release the lever that would activate the phaser bank.

 

The vessel belonging to the ‘Children of Talasar’ appeared to have held its position, waiting for Voyager to make her next move.  Tom quickly activated the phased carrier wave that would send an encrypted message to Voyager with the alien’s coordinates; the plan was to have her approach from the opposite side, in a classic pincer maneuver. 

 

“Time to engage those echoes, and call up our passengers,” he said, with a nod to Icheb.  __

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to watch Qorath, Karon and Naldar materialize in their midst.  The cabin suddenly seemed much smaller, given the Supreme Marshall’s hulking frame and menacing disposition, which even in holographic form he managed to project around himself like a force field.  There was no noticeable reaction from Talith, though; she must have immune to the impact thanks to having to sit across from the real thing over the last few weeks. 

 

Kalon and Naldar’s homunculi also did not appear too happy to be there.  Given time constraints, the holograms had been equipped with only the most basic of their models’ personality features, so that they would be able to interact with outsiders as necessary; this would require them to be able to put on a show of supreme reluctance at being offered up in exchange for Voyager’s safety.  They had not, much to Tom’s relief, been programmed for small talk, and would have remained silent even if Icheb had activated their voice functions.  The program was enhanced by the very real force field behind which the three were held, very obviously against their will.

 

“Hail them,” Tom ordered Icheb.  “Voice only, for now.”  _Show time._

 

“Federation shuttle Delta Flyer to the group that calls itself the Children of Talar.  We come with a proposal.”

 

The familiar face of the Talari renegade – or whatever he should be called, Tom hadn’t decided yet – filled the view screen.  Clearly, he did not feel the need to keep his screens off for the first round.

 

“Federation shuttle.  This is Commander Farqoth of the Children of Talar.  We have you in our sights.  Halt, or be prepared to be attacked.  Only then will we listen.”

 

 _Cocky bugger,_ Tom thought.  He had no doubt that he could fly circles around the vessel, but Picard’s voice rang in his ears:  _For the actual hit, use just a little snap of your fingers – don’t wind up with your whole wrist.  If you do it right, I won’t realize I’m about to be hit until it’s already happening, and there isn’t a lot I can do about it._

 

Tom turned to Icheb -- and, if he were to admit it to himself, to Talith – and commented grimly, “I think they mean they’d attack us with conventional weapons.  Guess the Flyer doesn’t rate the scourge.  _At least not yet_.”

 

He activated his own comm link, voice only.  “Hold your fire.  You said your fight was not with the Federation.  We are prepared to come to an arrangement.  We’ve brought you what you wanted, but we need a guarantee that you will let my ship pass unharmed.”

 

Farqoth’s grey-green eyes narrowed to a slit, giving his deeply scarred face an almost grotesque appearance.

 

“Show me.”

 

Tom repressed a small grin, glowering instead at his opponent in a show of supreme reluctance, and activated the view screen.  Talith was keeping herself out of view, ready to make her presence known only when needed.

 

“See for yourself.”

 

He imagined how it must look to the renegade Talari:  The well-known faces of the President of Denaros and the Supreme Talon, herded together behind a shimmering force field with the vicious-looking brute that was the Butcher of Talaros, all three men gesticulating wildly and obviously protesting their treatment at the hand of the Federation.  The rudimentary programming of the three holograms was sufficient to have Qorath deliver very real, very colourful threats about what he would do to Tom Paris if given the chance, while Naldar and Karon were condemning the day they had decided the Federation was a body that could be trusted.

 

Tom derived some degree of satisfaction when Farqoth seemed momentarily riveted by the spectacle.  _Didn’t expect we’d actually bring them, did you?_ Each and every second of fascination would distract him from his sensors, and buy valuable time for Voyager to get into position …

 

“As you can see, we only brought Qorath, Karon and Naldar.  We didn’t think you’d really care about a bunch of bureaucrats and soldiers, and leaving them behind made transport easier.  They’re not exactly happy to be here, as you can see, and have been a bit of a handful.  Bringing the lot might have made things impossible.”

 

As if to make his point, holo-Naldar straightened himself out and reminded the Farqoth in his most imperious tone of the price to be paid for sedition and attacks upon the Head of State.

 

“You will be hunted down with all the force of the law, mark my words!  And…”

 

In a rare show of solidarity -- if not good manners -- Karon’s image cut in.  “The Denarian forces have been alerted to your presence in our sector, and will use all available force to ensure a swift end to your terrorist activities.”

 

“ _Your_ sector?”  holo-Naldar was immediately sidetracked.  “This is _Talari_ territory.  And …”

 

“Computer, dampen sound,” Tom ordered with just the right degree of imperiousness, and whatever additional tangents any of the holograms might have embarked on were muffled into oblivion.  Hopefully, the display had been enough to set the hook for Farqoth.  He sat back, preparing himself for an unpleasant but ultimately rewarding discussion.

 

“So,” he said to the Talari.  “Now what?”

 

_Two minutes until Voyager would emerge from her natural cloak. More if there were problems.  Let’s hope the ruse holds until then.  Two more minutes…_

 

“I need proof that you’re not tricking us.  Anyone can transmit nice pictures.”

 

Farquoth punched a few commands into his console, then turned around, obviously conferring with someone just outside the range of the screen.  He poured over the data he was receiving from his unseen sidekick with a frown, as if studying something with which he was unfamiliar, before finally nodding in satisfaction.  _Thank you, Mike Ayala._

 

“One Talari, two Denarian, one human life sign.  And … something we don’t recognize.  Explain.”  
  


 _Good._  Farqoth’s curiosity would bring Voyager that much closer … 

 

“My science officer.  He’s Brunali, from the Delta Quadrant.  You may have heard that my ship was stranded there for …”

 

“No small talk, _human_.”  The latter epithet was laced with considerable disdain.  _Ah, touch of the racist.  Figures._

“I should punish you for changing my terms.  But seems you have brought me what I wanted most.  The glorious achievement of the Children of Talar is nearly complete.”

 

“Glad you agree, _Commander_.”  Tom managed to infuse the title with the same inflection Farqoth had just used.  _No point in playing a complete pushover; even if I’m supposed to have caved to this guy on the big issues._  

 

“You want to come aboard to pick them up?  Or do you want me to send them over there?  Your move.”  _Keep talking…_

 

“Indeed.”  Farqoth’s expression turned sly, as he gave a hand signal to his sidekick.  It did not take a particularly wild imagination to determine what he was intending to do, and one of the Flyer’s non-holographic passengers evidently recognized the signal even as a small light erupted from the alien vessel.

 

“Hold fire!”  Talith barked at the screen, which now had her in full view, having appeared behind Tom with the grace and speed of a pouncing cat, despite the sudden movement on the bridge as banked the Flyer in a sharp evasive maneuver. 

 

“If you are a true soldier of Talar, you will honour your commitment for the safety of this and the other Federation vessel.  The commitment I guaranteed, by coming here with them.”

 

Farqoth’s eyes widened in surprise, and he raised his hand halfway, as if to stay the attack he had just ordered. 

 

“M-m-marshall Talith,” he stammered a little, having lost some of his swagger.  “Why are you … what are you …” 

 

_Thus conscience does make cowards of us all._

Part of Tom wished he could have just blasted Farqoth out of this and into fluidic space, but there was a plan to complete.  He whirled the Flyer around in a complete loop, placing her behind the alien vessel and fired off a series of precision phaser shots into her propulsion system.  His fingers itched to do it again, and again, and …

 

_Restraint, Captain Paris.  You’re not … them.  And there’s a plan to complete._

Besides, their opponent didn’t seem particularly well-trained for a dogfight.  It was over before it had really begun.  Farqoth could still be seen on the screen screaming new orders, but it would never be known whether or not he would have continued trying to fire on the ship containing his erstwhile commander, or might have used the weapon in his shuttle’s belly to melt himself into oblivion when it was clear he had failed.  His ship now immobilized and hanging beside the shimmering vision of metal that was Voyager, he shimmered out of existence before his vessel could get off another round.

 

On Voyager’s bridge, Harry nodded to Admiral Janeway, who had been observing quietly as the command team’s plan unfolded.

 

"We’ve got him.  He’s in the brig, as is his side kick.”  

 

She nodded her pleasure.  “Excellent.  And the ship?” 

 

“Will be tractored into Shuttle Bay Three as soon as we have confirmed there are no other life forms onboard, and the Scourge hasn’t been armed yet.  Looks like the Flyer disabled her pretty well.”

 

Janeway smiled, for the first time in quite a few days, if somewhat dimly.  “Well done,” she announced to the bridge crew.

 

Harry failed to repress a satisfied smile, but there were other matters to attend to already.  He could see Asil’s fingers flying on her console, and the Vulcan equivalent of a frown creasing her smooth, ebony forehead.  Whatever she was seeing, it wasn’t good.  And Tom was still out there ...  But he had his orders.

 

“Lieutenant Baytart, prepare to take us away from the anomaly as soon as we have that ship.  Let’s hope they really only do have two of those weapons.  And no more ships in the vicinity.”

 

…. __

On the Flyer, Tom and Icheb exchanged self-congratulatory glances.  Icheb turned off the holographic projector, a gesture that immediately left the cabin appear less crowded, and Tom wishing it would always be that easy to get rid of unpleasant things.  _Computer, delete Hirogen …_

 

He turned to Talith, prepared to give credit where credit was due.“Thanks for your little intervention there, Marshall.  You bought us some valuable time.” 

 

She shrugged, and held out her hand to stop what she clearly considered unnecessary words.

 

“Captain,” she said, “Two things.  First, that vessel is definitely not of Talari origin.  Second, you seem to know a bit about flying.  Was that, in your view, a long-range ship?”

 

Tom frowned, and not because he had been interrupted.  As much as he hated to admit it, she had a point – one he and his crew should have thought about earlier.  There hadn’t been time to think, though…  Now there was.  And Talith was right.

 

“No,” he said.  “It isn’t.  They must have a base nearby.  I wonder …” 

 

He looked over to Icheb, who understood immediately, nodded solemnly and started tapping commands into his console. 

 

“What are you doing?”  Talith’s frowned question betrayed genuine interest now.

 

“I am attempting to find the resonance trace from the ship’s warp core.  We might be able to determine the ship’s course vector prior to its arrival in this area,” Icheb explained.  Talith’s eyebrows rose, giving her an even more hawk-like appearance. 

 

It was easy to forget that the peoples of the Antarean sector were not as technologically savvy as their Federation counterparts, Tom mused.  Presumably this was a direct consequence of their focus on weapons development and defence systems over the last couple of decades, and the unwillingness of potential trading partners to stop into the burning morass that was the Binary War …

 

He activated the comm.  “Paris to Voyager,” he said crisply.  “You made the pick-up?”

 

“Just completing the tractoring of the shuttle,” Harry confirmed.  “Asil has noted a gravimetric surge building inside the anomaly; it may be about to erupt into another expansion sequence.”

 

 _Damn._  

 

“Understood.  Get Voyager out of there as soon as you can; she’s not ready to take another buffeting, and we can’t be sure the Children of Talaros don’t have any more surprises for us.  Head for somewhere halfway between Denaros and Talar, give the Admiral a chance to figure out what to do with her negotiations.  We’re going to do a bit of detective work at our end, and will join you as soon as we’re done.” 

 

“Understood.  Kim out.”

 

“Wait, Harry.  Is the Admiral with you?”

 

Harry gave a sideways glance at Kathryn Janeway, who was standing beside him. 

 

“Yes she is.”

 

“What is it, Tom?”

 

“I think it’s important for us to figure out where the ship came from, Admiral.  I assume the talks are off while everybody takes in the new picture.  Do you think you could get this Farqoth guy to talk?” 

 

He hesitated a split second, then looked straight at the viewer.  “I remember you’re pretty good at that sort of thing.”

 

Kathryn suppressed a shudder, and a rueful headshake.  Some things she’d rather not be reminded of.

 

“I’d be happy to, Tom.  I was planning to pay him a visit anyway, and try to figure out where he fits into the picture.  And I agree – we need to find out who his friends might be.“

 

Tom nodded gratefully.  If someone could extract information from a stone – or a fanatical enigma -- it was Kathryn Janeway.

 

“Yeah.  They may have gotten those scourge weapons from sympathizers among their own people, but it’s pretty clear that someone else has been selling these guys far more sophisticated kit than is available around here, or that they’re trained to handle.”

 

He bit his lower lip, and nodded almost more to himself than to his former Captain.  “I’m beginning to wonder just how ‘binary’ this war really is anymore.”

 

…..

 

 

“I have located what could be parts of the vessel’s warp signature, Captain,” Icheb announced.  “It appears to be broken, though, likely due to the effect of the anomaly on this region of space.”

 

“Can you image what you’ve got and put it on screen?  Maximum range.”

 

Icheb entered the necessary commands. 

 

“On screen now, sir.  I am afraid the information is not as detailed as it would be in Voyager’s Astrometrics lab.”

 

The Flyer’s view screen showed the by now familiar constellations of the Antarean sector, with the binary suns of Denaros and Talar and their respective worlds; the outlying worlds where colonies had been settled, fought over and devastated were about two-thirds out. 

 

“What’s that blur on the lower rim?”

 

“The subspace anomaly, sir.”

 

 _Kahless._  Tom stared at the phenomenon with a frown.  So far it had proven to be an interesting scientific phenomenon, a handy cloak, and of late, a major inconvenience.  But seeing it on the screen like that, approaching the worlds on the outer rim of Talari and -- eventually -- Denarian space, it appeared more like a hungry mouth, opening wide to swallow what had not been affected by war and whole-scale, man-made destruction.  An unnecessary complication, in an already complicated world.

 

His throat suddenly dry, Tom pushed the thought back in favour of the more immediate issues. 

 

“Those lines are un-decayed warp signatures, left by the ship we just took.  There should be others like it.”  __

He turned to Icheb.  “Can you highlight the coordinates where the Gettysburg … was destroyed?”

 

Icheb entered an additional command, and a thin line appeared, nearly identical to the ones left behind by Farqoth’s ship, leading – and ending – at the Gettysburg’s last coordinates.

 

_Bingo._

_  
_

Together, the majority of the lines, including the one that led to the Gettysburg’s orbit, reflected two separate vectors.  The more recent ones pointed to a moon in one of the outlying colonies.  Home base, most likely.   A couple of others, of different configuration, were streaking off in a seemingly random direction.

 

But what had him whistling silently under his breath were much older, barely visible lines – resonance traces left probably months ago, now almost gone – that led clearly and inexorably to the planetoid the Voyager’s crew had dubbed _Midas_.  And one trace, very fresh and very different, leading away from it.  Towards deep space, away from the Antarean sector.

 

Icheb stared at the screen, dumbfounded.  When he spoke, his normally even voice was full of indignation, and a touch of accusation.

 

“How is it possible that there could be a place on Midas where these ships might have landed at some point?  We were in orbit around it for a month, as was the Gettysburg.  Lieutenant Asil, Lieutenant Commander Kim and I looked at it every day, trained all our sensors and instruments on it.  We would have noticed if there had been something there.  _Should_ have noticed.”

 

Tom’s eyes hadn’t left the screen.  _Idiot,_ he scolded himself.  _Blind and stupid and …_

“It’s not your fault, Icheb.  I shouldn’t have just assumed that that bloody rock was empty.  If I’d given the proper directions …” 

“There doesn’t have to be an actual base there,” Talith chimed in.  “They could have just landed there to take on supplies.  Dilithium crystals for their warp engines, or benomite crystals, to stabilize the Scourge.”

 

“No, I don’t think so.”  Tom said, even as he mentally filed that little piece of technical/tactical intel about the Talari super-weapon.  _Might be useful some day._

His finger stabbed in the direction of the screen. 

 

“That’s the grand prize over there.  The bauble they’ve been fighting over, the celestial jackpot.  We knew that, and were sent to watch over it.  And _dammit_ , I should have known better than to assume there was nothing there to be seen.  And I bet someone’s been there all along.  Just keeping a very, very low profile while we were hanging right over top of them, bored to tears.”

 

Someone who had been harvesting those crystals and ores, dripping in blood and dusted with ashes …  And who no doubt had used the clear space created by the death of the Gettysburg to take a shipment to market.

 

“But I still don’t understand how they could be there undetected, Captain?”  Icheb was genuinely puzzled, if not upset, and Tom managed to excise the anger out of his voice as he responded.

 

“How did that first ship manage to get to the Gettysburg?  And the other almost got to us, if you hadn’t outsmarted them?  Cloaks, Icheb.  Cloaking devices.  We’ve seen that they can cover whole planetoids, so installations like mining operations would be a peace of cake.  The problem is, you look for what you expect, and I did think to look for the unexpected.”

 

Tom turned to his console.  A few clipped sentences and Voyager was in the picture. Or what he believed the picture to be -- for now, anyway.  At least they would know where the bases were, even if they had no idea who manned them; if you needed to prepare for unwanted guests, it was always useful to know which direction they were likely to come from. 

 

Icheb continued to frown.  “Would cloaking devices not suggest Romulan involvement then, sir?” 

The young Brunali’s studies onboard Voyager and rapid progress through the Academy had given him sufficient grounding in Alpha Quadrant politics and strategic capabilities to rule out the Klingons as a possible source; the Empire would never trade away its defensive technology.

 

Tom shrugged.  “Don’t know, but I doubt they’re involved directly, frankly.  That said the Romulans are pretty down at heel these days, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re selling off some of their strategic kit to pay for reconstruction and a new fleet.  Officially, or on a private basis – who knows.”

 

“But sell their technology to whom, Captain Paris?  And why?”  Talith was skeptical, Tom could tell.  Clearly, the years she had spent focusing on a single enemy made it difficult to see a world – and possible interests – beyond Talar and Denaros. 

 

“That I have no idea,” Tom.  “Yet.  I intend to find out though.  And whatever we come up with, I bet it’ll spice up your negotiations a little.  But, it probably all boils down to one thing.  The Ferengi have a saying -- one of their Rules of Acquisition, I believe.  _War is good for business._   And someone out here is bent on making a killing.”

 

The statement – and its more literal implications -- hung in the suddenly viscous air of the cabin until the silence was disrupted by a small noise from the aft cabin, a sudden reminder of the Denarian ‘volunteer’ whom all three officers, Starfleet and Talari alike, had completely banished from their thoughts.  As if conscious of their lapse, Major Pakoth entered the cockpit, heavy boots announcing his presence. 

 

Tom’s earlier supposition, that the noises he’d heard from the aft cabin could be ascribed to the Denarian’s enthusiasm for replicator technology, could not have been more wrong.  For in the Major’s hands was the unmistakable silhouette of Starfleet-issue compression rifle -- evidently removed from the rear storage compartment -- that now moved very deliberately from one of his fellow passengers to the other.

 

____________________________________________ 

 

NOTE:  _Avertissement_ is French for “warning”.  Warnings come accompanied, as they do in soccer, with the flash of a yellow card by the referee.  Basically this puts you or your opponent on notice that something bad will happen, the next time the rules get broken.   

 

 


	10. Parade/Riposte

Janeway headed for the brig, two security officers in tow.  She had found herself taking an instinctive liking to the burly, red-headed Ensign by her side, and was trying to engage him in conversation as they went, albeit with limited success.  Maybe he was intimidated by her rank, or perhaps his long sojourn in a Romulan prison camp had made him socially awkward around women?  She had the impression that he could be quite voluble in the right company, even if it wasn’t hers.

 

No matter.  Arno Schmidt had agreed readily enough to the role she assigned him for the interrogation, although something flashed in his eyes as he did so.  The involuntary betrayal of a secret appreciation for tables, turned? 

 

They arrived in Cargo Bay Two where the interview would take place, and the men spent a few minutes checking over the security features engineering had installed on rather short notice.  She looked around as they tested out the chair, secured the exit against external tampering, and verified both computer voice access and a mechanical alarm system. 

 

What struck Kathryn the most, as she scanned the room, was its echoing emptiness.  The Borg alcoves were gone, and even though they had seemed eerie and alien at first, over time they had acquired something close to the familiar, their green glow almost welcoming to those, like her, who knew the warm, human life they sustained in defiance of their designers’ wishes.  Now, more than half of the space was taken up by featureless supply containers.

 

While Janeway captained Voyager, they had had little call to separate prisoners for questioning; most interviews had taken place in the brig itself.  For example, the one she had carried out with a still-recovering, suddenly human Seven of Nine.  _Seven of Nine.  Who had lived in this room for four years._  

 

Once Schmidt nodded his satisfaction, Janeway took her own seat, separated by a small, featureless table from the chair that would be occupied by the man the two officers would now fetch.  She dismissed them with a determined nod, knowing they would not hear what she did -- old demons, unfolding and stretching their rustling wings, despite the bright light she had requested.

 

Kathryn had, of course, used Cargo Bay Two for … questioning … once before, when Seven had been taken, by Captain Ransom of the _Equinox_.  Her abduction had been the least of the crimes committed by the man responsible, but it was the memory of her own response to his outrages that sent unwilling shudders down her spine: 

 

 _Noah Lessing._ The contorted face, eyes dark with a terror _she_ had inflicted, using the most lethal tool at her disposal – his own knowledge of how his ending would look … the same knowledge that had driven her to an anger so righteous that … 

 

In the seven years she had led her ship through the Delta Quadrant, she had never been that close to losing her way; in many ways she was still accounting for that loss.  There had been many others, but none so sharp, none so clearly revealing of the Kathryn Janeway that could be. 

 

She swallowed, hard, and cleared her throat in the echoing room. 

 

One thing Kathryn did know now, in this present, was that she was not looking forward to this new undertaking.  Nor had she mistaken the undercurrent in Tom’s voice – despite his seemingly light-hearted words signaling his remembrance -- when he had asked her to take it on.  What had he been counting on that she would do?  Or that she would _not_ do? 

 

No matter.  This was _her_ task, and she would not lose herself again.  She was not … _them._

At least not anymore. 

 

And never again.

 

The door whooshed open, and Schmidt pushed the Talari inside the bay and down on the chair opposite Kathryn’s -- not gently.  With a determined growl he instructed the computer to “apply shackles,” and watched with a satisfied grin as the computer interpreted his remarks by erecting small force field tendrils around Tekol’s lower body and his legs, effectively securing him against both the seat and the legs of the chair which itself was bolted to the floor.  He would be able to move comfortably, but not to rise until released by an authorized voice command.

 

The image gave Kathryn the shivers. 

 

“He’s all yours, Admiral,” Schmidt said, stepping back to lean up against the wall beside the door, arms crossed.  His companion stood at ease on the other side, hand on his phaser.  “I don’t think you need to be particularly nice to this guy; he seems bent on meeting his maker anyway.”

 

Kathryn gave Schmidt a frosty look that was only in part the result of their pre-determined roles in this interrogation.  Its core of genuine revulsion at the Ensign’s choice of words was not lost on Farqoth, though, who immediately shifted his focus towards her.

 

“Tell me.  What was the name of the officer who died destroying the Gettysburg?”

 

Taken off-guard by the question – it was clear he was expecting something else – Farqoth blurted out a name that sounded a bit like “Loran”.

 

_Good.  A response.  Get him responding..._

 

“I assume Loran had loved ones who died at Talasar?”

 

“Grandparents,” came the reply, as Farqoth straightened himself out in his chair, testing the invisible restraint that kept him in place in the process.  Already, this was not going in a direction he had expected.

 

“He must have been very upset when they died, to do what he did.”  Kathryn’s voice had a husky, almost gentle warmth to it as she spoke.

 

“He was very young.  I’m not sure he’d ever actually met them in person.  But the memories on Talar are strong, and we will never forget what was done to our people, on Talasar.”  His chin came up, ready to take on anyone who would doubt his comrade’s devotion to their cause, expecting a challenge.

 

It didn’t come.

 

“How about yourself?  Did you lose someone you cared about?  Close family?”

 

“No.  But I had just joined the expeditionary forces, and saw the aftermath of the massacre when we arrived on Talasar.  I helped dispose of the bodies, those that remained, that the survivors hadn’t taken care of yet.  And I took the testimonies.”

 

He glowered at Kathryn, defiantly.

 

“You do not forget something like that.”

 

“No, I don’t suppose you do.  It scars you for life.”

 

Farqoth looked at her, confusion written on his face.  Clearly, the last thing he had expected was understanding.

 

 _Good.  Keep him off balance_.  _Talking, responding.  Change topic._

 

“I assume you served under Marshall Talith?  You seem to hold her in high regard.”

 

“I was assigned to the same ship when she was only a Lieutenant.  The first ship that went to Talasar, after the massacre.  She lost family there, I was told.  She rose through the ranks quickly, after that, and devoted her life to defeating our enemy.  The daring raid she led to Denaros, that blaze of glory in which she showed these … these _aberrations_ of sentient life what Talar can achieve, will be sung about for generations.” 

 

Kathryn’s sudden challenge, why the Children had essentially condemned the subject of their adulation to die on the Gettysburg, was met by a finely nuanced, and clearly well-rehearsed, speech about the eternal benefits of Dying For The Eternal Glory Of Talar.  How she managed to keep the bile rising from her throat she would never know; she envied the freedom she had given to Schmidt who used it to spit contemptuously on the floor.

 

But then Farqoth frowned, shadows of anger and genuine puzzlement crossing his face. 

 

“I do not understand why Marshal Talith is now content to sit and … _talk_ , together with that traitor Naldar, when we were so close to defeating them.” 

 

“You mean, after Kyven?”

 

Farqoth glared at her.  “Yes, of course I mean after Kyven.  What was done there could – _should --_ have been done to all of Denaros.  And all of their worlds.  We could have gotten rid of them once and for all, claim what’s ours.”

 

_Genocide.  He’s rationalizing, even advocating genocide …_

 

Kathryn kept her voice even.  “Why do you call Naldar a traitor?”

 

Farqoth’s head snapped up.  Obviously, this woman didn’t get it.  “Because he could have given the order to destroy all of Denaros.  _Should_ have given that order.  Not just showed them that we could do so if we wanted to.  Then the war would have been over.  Instead, they went running to _you_ , to _alien outsiders,_ to try and make an ignominious peace.”

 

He glared at Kathryn, who didn’t respond, content to let him have his say even as something in what he was saying struck her:  _Why had the Talari not pressed their advantage?  What did they need from Denaros, that its destruction could not provide?_

 

“Peace.” 

 

Farqoth’s voice was now a mixture of dripping contempt and sermon-like thunder.  It was clear that he was on a roll, just as it was clear that he was on well-trodden ground -- his words a refrain, frequently sung, acquiring their self-sustaining truth through the very act of repetition. 

 

“Peace - with people who would slaughter little children.  Who would take our resources and use them to expand their mindless empire.  The people of Talar cannot stand for such blind and reckless surrender of our future – a future we, the Children of Talasar, are willing to secure for them with our lives.”

 

So clearly, Kathryn concluded, the idea was to force Talar to complete the destruction of Denaros; these fanatics had convinced themselves that not only was it worth dying for that goal – not to mention do unto the children of their enemies what had been done unto their own -- but that it was perfectly acceptable to trigger the extinction of a species.  The murder of innocent bystanders such as the crew of the Gettysburg was clearly not worth even the breath required by rationalization.

 

But Farqoth was not done.  Having embarked on his righteous rant, he was clearly in a mood to continue.  Or maybe there were a few talking points he simply had to include in his speech, in order to convince himself?  If fanaticism was a house of cards, Kathryn knew, all the pieces needed to be there to sustain it.  And she knew she had to have them all.

 

“Luckily my comrades found people who were willing to help us stop Naldar’s insanity.  And with their help, we will see that this war is finished.” 

 

He cast Kathryn a look laced with cunning and smug superiority.  She itched to ask the direct, the obvious question – who?  But there was no point; a zealot flying on the wings of his own rhetoric would not likely take too kindly to being disrupted with questions about mere facts. 

 

Time for a little provocation, then.  She cast a look at Schmidt, who took the hint with a promptness she had expected -- and an enthusiasm she had feared, but could not help but secretly second.  As long as he did not come close to the line she herself had once so very nearly stumbled over … __

“Yeah, so you did.  You found someone who gave you the ships and the cloaking technology – and you used that to attack a Starfleet vessel that had no involvement in your war.  Real smart, you and your little helpers.  ‘Coz now we’re involved, and we’ll blast you and your little shit-gang of wannabe martyrs into the oblivion you obviously crave.”

 

“Ensign,” she warned, putting as much deliberate indignation as she could into her voice, even as she found the sudden need to suppress a deep-throated chuckle.  “Restrain yourself.”

 

 _Little shit-gang of wannabe martyrs?_ No wonder Tom had cut through a space-ribbon’s length of red tape, tightly coiled, to get this man released for active duty.  Birds of a feather …

 

She decided to take a chance.  “And based on what I am given to understand, you may have used up your main tactical advantage already.  You managed to get off one lucky shot, and now we have the other weapon in our shuttle bay.  The peace talks _will_ proceed, of that you can be assured.  I’m not sure what game your so-called friends are playing, but I doubt that the Children of Talasar feature in it in the long run.”

 

That bit; clearly, being considered irrelevant was not appreciated by the man who was sufficiently convinced of the importance of his cause – however irrational it may be -- to die for it.  Farqoth tried to rise up in his chair in indignation, only to be pulled back by the force field.  He sat down again, heavily.  The effect was less than dignified, but he made up for it in the insolent tone in which he growled out his next words.

 

“You will never stop the course of justice.  The cry of the children of Talasar will echo through the generations, and only the death of their enemies will bring them peace.”

 

With that he sat back in his chair, arms crossed before his broad chest, the interview clearly over, despite repeated efforts by Janeway to coax, cajole and provoke additional responses.

 

It was not until Arno Schmidt’s attempt to return Farqoth to his cell were disrupted by reports from Asil about phaser fire in the brig, that Janeway understood something very clearly:  That someone else onboard Voyager might hold the answers to some of the questions she had posed.

 

…..

 

Tom stared at the compression rifle with a baleful eye, but only a part of his conscious mind was devoted to considering the danger it represented.  For the moment, his main focus was a string of self-deprecating curses, directed at his own stupidity. 

 

Yes, the Delta Flyer was his own ship, brought onboard under the ‘Captain’s yacht’ privilege -- thereby bypassing the interminable waiting list for the official allocation to his ship of the Fleet’s newest shuttlecraft.  And yes, as such it was not completely subject to Starfleet regulations.  But that, he realized, did not excuse in the least his failure to secure her weapons locker with his command codes.  _That_ had to do with basic common sense.  Which he, apparently, lacked in spades.

 

_Moron.  Idiot.  Cretin.  Shit.  Shit.  Shit._

 

He looked over at Icheb and Talith, who were keeping themselves appropriately still.  Icheb was glancing down at his console, and straight back at him.  Tom dipped his eyes briefly in acknowledgement.  _Yes._

 

So they had a plan, such as it was; the question was implementation and timing.  Well, he was the one who had screwed up here, so it behooved him to take point.

 

“So, you’re gonna shoot us now, Major?” he said conversationally.  “And then what?  Who’ll fly the ship?  Have you looked at these instruments?  I’m told they’re a real sonofabitch to figure out.  Took me months, and I’m the one who designed them.”

 

“Quiet,” Pakoth snarled, waving the rifle in Tom’s direction.  “You fly the ship where I tell you, or you and your crewman will die.  If you do as you’re told, you’ll be spared.  The Talari is mine, though.  She’ll make a good trophy, and having her will make me a hero on Denaros.”

 

“Fly you where, exactly?”  Tom inquired.  Might as well get the coordinates out of the guy before taking him out.  Provided they could.  Take him out, that was.

 

Thank goodness, the guy was cut from the _immediate gratification_ mold, and provided the desired information immediately.

 

“Coordinates eight-four-seven-six-four-point-zero,” Pakoth dictated, obviously pleased with himself.  He watched Tom enter the coordinates on the helm.  “Warp Six.”

 

Tom nodded, and flicked a few switches on the Flyer’s console.  None of these were in any way related to the engine, but felt pretty secure in his ability to rely on Pakoth not knowing that the ship’s port landing lights were now configured precisely to McKinley station specs, rather than those of DS6.  He swiveled in his chair and faced the Denarian.

 

“Okay, so you’ve got a gun now,” he said, injecting a new tone into his voice, something between yawning boredom and mild contempt. 

 

“Problem for you, though, is that this is a _Starfleet_ gun.  I doubt that you’ve seen anything like it before, on that backward rock you call your home planet.  So if I were you, I’d make real sure that you don’t mistake the safety for the firing pin, and don’t forget to set the power flux capacitor on ‘forward’.  Because if you don’t do these things, it’ll backfire on you something fierce.  As in, _pop goes the weasel_.”  He made a plopping sound with his lips and a small gesture with his hand, the opening fingers signifying the unmistakable bloom of an explosion.

 

Pakoth pulled the weapon closer to his body, almost hugging its butt to his side.  “You lie,” he snarled.  “No one designs a gun like that.”

 

Tom shrugged diffidently.  “Perhaps on Denaros they don’t.  They’re not very big on forward planning there, I’ve noticed.  But in Starfleet, we always assume that our kit may fall into the wrong hands, and so we build in a few precautions against people with sticky fingers.  Try it, see if I’m right.  Me or Talith, don’t really care who you aim at.  Won’t make any difference, honestly.  So, please, go ahead.”

 

With deliberate nonchalance he reached for his own holstered phaser, all the while keeping an eye on Pakoth as he did so.  As expected, the man hesitated slightly, tilting the weapon up slightly to look at the trigger before pulling it, to make sure there were no buttons he might have missed.  Tom took advantage of the rifle no longer being trained on his mid-section, threw himself out of his chair and rolled under the console.  He pulled his own phaser out as he went down.

 

His shout of  “ _Now_!” proved unnecessary.  Icheb lunged for his console and the three holograms sprang to photonic life in front of Pakoth.  Startled, the Denarian pulled the gun back from its slightly-off focus on Tom and fired at the representation of Naldor, who had materialized closest to his position wearing his usual indignant facial expression.  The shot went through the hologram, whose matrix wavered slightly, and discharged harmlessly against the cabin wall where it caused a series of sparks to erupt. 

 

The misfire bought Tom sufficient time to train his own weapon on Pakoth -- but as it turned out, he did not need to pull the trigger.  Talith was on the Denarian in a whirl of limbs and felled him with a single chop of the side of her hand, delivered to the man’s apparently sensitive neck ridge.  She kicked the weapon away from him before picking it up and training it on their would-be captor.

 

“He must have found the power flux capacitor,” she commented drily. 

 

Tom couldn’t repress a chuckle as he picked himself up off the floor -- something that used to be a bit easier, he thought ruefully. 

 

“Yeah,” he replied.  “Guess he did.  Good work, everybody.”

 

He dragged Pakoth’s limp body into a corner of the cabin, not bothering to check the man’s vitals, and called on the computer to activate a force field around him.  Then he went back to the conn.

 

“Let’s see what we got.”  Tom punched up the coordinates Pakoth had given to him, and routed them to the screen.  “Icheb, overlay with the warp resonance tracings from earlier.”

 

“You know this place?” he asked Talith, whose local knowledge would presumably come in useful.  She seemed interested in playing for his side for the time being – who was he not to take advantage?

 

“One of the Denarian colonies,” she confirmed after a single glance at the small planetoid the coordinates yielded.  “Small, but on the outer edge close to Talari space.  We attacked it a few times, but it’s riddled with caves so most of their sensitive operations are deep underground.  Not much to hit.”

 

“A good place to hide things, then,” Tom mused, as his finger was tracing one of the resonance traces he had considered random before, but could now clearly identify as heading towards this same planetoid.

 

“Like what, Captain?”  Icheb, the natural scientist, was always curious to learn, and Tom was happy to oblige.

 

“Well, apart from a base of operations, I’d expect to find evidence of the fact that whoever is operating on Midas is playing both sides, the Denarians as well as the Talari.”

 

“You mean, is playing _for_ both sides,” Talith corrected with a frown.

 

Tom looked at her thoughtfully, and shook his head.  “No.  No, actually, I don’t.  I doubt that whoever is down there is playing for anyone but themselves, and they probably are playing _you_ for all you’re worth.”

 

…..

 

The brig was swarming with tricorder-wielding security officers, most grouped around the lifeless body of the crewman who’d been on duty in the brig, and the equally still remains of Farqoth’s sidekick inside the cell.  Ayala was quick to take charge, and ordered all but Schmidt out of the room for now; this site was secure, and there was a possibility that problems might arise elsewhere.  Two officers were dispatched to take the bodies to Sickbay via site-to-site transport, the remainder was asked to await further orders. 

 

Even after Ayala had rather unceremoniously shoved a protesting Farqoth into the empty cell, the room remained well-populated with him, Schmidt, Harry and Janeway all crowding around the console.  He nodded at Schmidt to do the necessary.

 

“You’d think whoever did this never heard of security cameras.” 

 

Schmidt’s contempt, as he routed the record of the last hour inside the brig area onto the screen of the console, had an edge to it that had little to do with the perpetrators, and everything with his anger at the death of a comrade.  The commands he entered came with the force of a one-two-three punch, until the screen flashed to the precise time when he had removed Farqoth from his cell.  Only then did he exhale sharply, and forced his shoulders to relax under Ayala’s firm but reassuring grip.

 

“They probably haven’t,” Harry shrugged.  “Apart from warp drive and weaponry, both the Denarians and the Talari are pretty far behind in their technological development.  In this case, that’s probably a good thing.” 

 

He stepped aside a little to allow Janeway and Ayala access to the screen as well. 

 

“Fast forward, please.” 

 

Schmidt tapped in a few commands and the images on the screen accelerated.  The security officer could be seen, his movements jerky, as he periodically bent over the screen confirming the oxygen level and temperature in the cell, and that the force field was still in place.  Once he walked over to the field, presumably to look at his charge whose husky form lay still on the bench.  Asleep, it seemed.

 

Harry tried to suppress his very keen, very present understanding of the fact that what they were watching were the last moments of Crewman Adil Chowdhury.  The man had joined Starfleet to escape one of the war-ravaged colonies ceded to the Cardassians, only to die here in the supposed safety of the brig, the victim of another war -- one of which he knew nothing.  Harry knew that his urge to slow down the replay out of respect for the fallen was irrational, but was only marginally bothered by the fact that he couldn’t feel the same way about the Talari who was just as dead, and by the same weapon. 

 

As if she sensed – and shared -- some of his thoughts, Janeway gripped his arm lightly. 

 

“The best we can do for Chowdhury and his family now, Harry, is to identify his murderer.”

 

Harry nodded, not satisfied, but stilled, for the moment.  _Thank goodness, it was Tom who’d have to make the call to that family..._ A shadow crossed the lens, and he pointed at the screen.  “There!”

 

Schmidt stopped the transmission, and started to advance it, frame by frame.  No one who had spent hours in the same room with the Talari and Denarian delegations could mistake the man – short, stocky, flowing robe -- who first walked up to Chowdhury, as if to engage him in conversation.  Chowdhury frowned and started to turn slightly sideways, as if to reach for something on his console, when the alien visitor casually extended his arm – causing his ceremonial robe to fall back and to reveal a phaser. 

 

_Alqil, civilian aide to the Naldar, the Supreme Talon of Talar._

 

Two quick blasts, and Chowdhury doubled up over his console.  He did not appear to have had a chance to trigger the security alert he had been reaching for so rather late, let alone to touch his own weapon; whether his delayed reaction was due to human misjudgment, or because he had been improperly trained or instructed, might be a matter for one of Starfleet’s boards of inquiry, Harry knew.  Now that Voyager was back in a universe where such things existed.

 

What happened next on the screen was a surprise, though.  Rather than simply lowering the force field and killing his apparently primary prey, Alqil engaged the other Talari in conversation.  Whatever questions he asked, or challenges he made, were obviously meant to benefit from the muzzle of the phaser he pointed at the prisoner, but the man simply crossed his arms in front of his chest and spat out what seemed like a series of curses. 

 

Losing patience quickly, Alqil fired into the force field.  He was momentarily taken aback when the shot resulted in a major outburst of sparks but no harm to the prisoner, and looked around to determine whether he had set off any alerts. 

 

No one came, but it was clear even to him that his actions would likely set off sensors somewhere.  He ran over to the console and, phaser still trained on his intended victim, punched commands into the console until the force field disintegrated.  He fired off three quick shots and headed for the door, not bothering to watch the Talari would-be terrorist crumble to the floor.

 

Harry swallowed.  He had come prepared to die in the name of the children of Talasar – would this senseless death at the hands of one of his own give him the martyrdom he so clearly craved?  Hopefully not, and Harry felt surprisingly little guilt at the vindictive thought.

 

Ayala’s reaction was instantaneous.  “Computer, locate the Talari delegate, Alqil.”

 

_“Mr. Alqil is in the quarters assigned to the Supreme Talon, Naldar.”_

 

Harry hit his comm badge.  “Double security teams to President Naldar’s quarters, Deck Six.  Phasers on stun.  Arrest or incapacitate his aide, Alqil.” 

 

The look he briefly exchanged with Janeway was a clear ‘ _And I don’t care which it is’._ He nodded at Ayala and Schmidt, who lost no time in tearing out of the room to join their comrades in the hunt for the suspected killer, and turned back to his former Captain. __

“Did he really think he’d get away with this, on a ship this size?  What on Earth can he have been thinking?”

 

Janeway shook her head.  “It’s not what he was _thinking_ that matters _,_ Harry.  It’s what he thought the dead man knew, and what he was trying to hide.”

 

 ___________________________________________

 

NOTE:  _Parade,_ as you may have guessed, has little to do with ticker tape and celebrations.  It’s the French term for ‘parry’ – the blocking of the opponent’s attack with your blade.  A _riposte_ is the responsive move that follows immediately after the parry.  If there’s an English word for it I haven’t heard it, but I’ve heard this one used often enough by people who’ve never touched anything more martial than a Swiss army knife.

 

It is when having to sort out the intricate play of parries, ripostes, counter parries and counter ripostes -- especially in foil and sabre fencing, where sequence matters -- that the judge really earns her keep.  Miss a call, and all hell breaks loose…

 


	11. Double Touche

_Command.  Control._

He had control of Voyager, but Kathryn Janeway had command of the mission.  He had to remember that, or he would find himself drowning in another Monea.

 

_Command.  Control._

 

His ship.  Her mission.

 

His job – keep Voyager safe.  Hers, to reconcile two worlds so wide apart and yet so intricately tied together that it was almost impossible to sort out which thread led where.  A Gordian knot Tom would gladly use Voyager’s phaser bank to unravel.  But he couldn’t.  Not without her consent.

 

_Command and control._

He kept repeating the words like a mantra as he glared at Janeway, who was seated across from him in the ready room.

 

“So you really think that investigating and stopping whoever is meddling in this conflict would compromise the mission?”  He tried, but failed, to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

 

“I didn’t say that, Tom.” 

 

Kathryn observed her former helmsman keenly.  He had always been the one chomping at the bit for action, never afraid to challenge her or anyone else in a position of authority if he felt something needed to be done; the weight of the four pips on his collar appeared to have done little to slow him down.  Time and again, she had wondered whether this particular trait was an asset, or a liability.

 

_What would she have done in his place?_

 

The novelty of the question startled her and she hesitated to consider the answer, knowing -- but not quite willing to admit -- what it would be.  In her seven years as Captain of Voyager Kathryn Janeway had never had to surrender command to someone else’s idea of ‘the interest of the mission’.   

 

 _Action Kate_ , some of the crew had called her, supposedly without her knowledge, when she’d led the charge into some adventure or other.  And yes, _Action Kate_ would want nothing more than to do what Tom was asking.

 

But one thing she knew: now was not the time.  She believed that.  _Had_ to believe that.  The bars on her collar whispered it to her, as her pips never had.

 

“What I _did_ say, Tom, is that we can’t afford to have Voyager run off and carry out recce missions – whether to that Denarian colony where Pakoth wanted to go, or to the presumed bolt hole of the Children of Talasar.  Yes, I know you’re probably right.  The evidence implicates both these places, and whoever is interfering probably left some traces of their identity there.  But that’s not the point.”

 

She took a deep breath, trying to convince herself as much she was trying to persuade Tom.  He, in turn, pounced on the pause without hesitation or mercy. 

 

“What, exactly, is the point?  Don’t you need to know what’s going on, in order to find out where you’re supposed to be heading?”

 

She sighed in exasperation.

 

“For the sake of the integrity of these peace talks, we need to stay in neutral territory.  And like it or not, Voyager is now the neutral venue for those talks. Frankly, the only thing that should move Voyager away from here again is another emergency, like the one we just had.  And no matter how much I, too, would like to know more about those other parties and their interest, that doesn’t make it an emergency.”

 

“ _Not yet_.  Not until another one comes and throws a deadly weapon at us.  We heard back from Starfleet, and the nearest ship is forty-eight hours out at Warp Eight.” 

 

His reply was immediate and defiant.  Kathryn knew from painful experience that Tom – much like his father -- could be like a dog with a bone when his mind was set on something; neither would ever go quietly into the good night of acquiescence as long there was a door left to be kicked down. 

 

Warily, she watched the thoughts and emotions play across her former helmsman's features.  Where his face had been almost completely closed off when they had first met, to her it was now an open book.  She watched the initial mixture of anger and disbelief – ' _not again!' -_ being replaced by dawning recognition: ' _But she actually gets it, so why…'_

Then, something that briefly concerned her.  ' _Emergency. She said emergency. How do I manufacture an emergency?'_  Fortunately, that question was immediately wiped out by a quick, almost imperceptible headshake: ' _No, Paris, you're the Captain now. Be responsible.  You need to be responsible.'_

 

But finally, the flash of a grin, slightly devious and all Tom Paris – as quickly suppressed as it had quirked the corner of his mouth.  Kathryn’s sensors went on red alert as she watched Tom deploy his most lethal weapons, finely honed by years of practice on his mother and sisters, and perfected (almost) on his wife and former Captain. 

 

Impossibly blue eyes sought hers, brimming with innocence and an earnest sincerity that she just _knew_ to be as deliberate as it was convincing.  Not to mention, downright captivating. The same look that had made her wave a cigarette holder into the face of a ludicrous villain of Tom’s own creation, wearing an equally ludicrous dress – replicated in a Size 4, yet, out of spontaneous, helpless and entirely self-inflicted vanity. 

 

Nacheyev was right: the man was a natural diplomat.  Who was it that had said, ‘a diplomat is one who can cut his neighbour’s throat without having his neighbour noticing’?  Kathryn braced herself as Tom engaged. 

 

“Well, as you noted quite rightly, Admiral, Voyager has to stay in neutral territory so you can keep doing your job.  I get that.  Really, I do.  But that doesn’t apply to the Flyer, does it?  She’s not even Starfleet, so as far as I’m concerned we’ve got – what’s that term the politicians love? – _plausible deniability._ And if we were to have a look just at Midas, not at the two other places, we can get that done and be home in time for dinner.”

 

He paused for effect and to give her the chance to chime in.  When she remained silent, he put the high beams on and poured on the persuasion.

 

“ _Bringing back information that will no doubt prove invaluable for your negotiations._   Asil has now traced transmissions from both Pakoth and Alqil to a third-party ship travelling in Antarean space -- no doubt headed to or from Midas, if those resonance signatures we found are as fresh as I think they are.”

 

He twinkled at her now, doubtless reading her as well as she had him, knowing full well that she saw through him as if he were made of glass, yet pressing what he perceived as his inevitable advantage against her weakening resolve.

 

“Now, _obviously_ I’m not a trained mediator like you are, but it seems to me that you’re more likely to get somewhere once you’ve sorted out all the hidden agendas, right?  I mean, who was it that said, ‘Few things are ever as they appear?’”

 

What intrigued Kathryn most, apart from the neat little speech itself, was that Tom knew much better than to ask his former Captain’s consent.  _He’s not putting me on the spot, or in the position of having to say ‘no’._ Instead, he simply put the bait on the table, pitched his case, and stepped back -- waiting for her to pick it up by answering his rather leading question. 

 

 _Natural diplomat, indeed._   She shook her head.  Heaven help the unsuspecting alien dignitaries who’d be at Tom’s mercy should he ever decide to go pro -- or anyone, should he decide to go into the used shuttlecraft business.

 

What was even worse was, at this moment, he was probably right. 

 

Kathryn sighed her surrender.  But she was not one to go quietly, either.  Two could play at this game.

 

“And of course, you would want to be carrying out this little recce yourself?  How much sleep have you had lately?  _Captain?_ ”

 

Tom’s eyes narrowed.  Trust _Action Kate_ to be the one to remind him that a Captain shouldn’t try to be and do everything himself…  Leading Farqoth away from his ship was one thing, but this was a straightforward away mission that should be left to someone else. 

 

Clearly, she couldn’t let him have an outright victory here, for whatever reason.  _Fine.  Let’s have a compromise then.  Kahless -- what a concept …_

The smile he gave her was one she hadn’t seen before.  Half acknowledging a hit, half gloating over one he had landed himself.  How did the saying go – tie goes with the runner?  Whatever that meant…  But who was she kidding?

 

_A compromise then.  With Tom Paris, of all people.  And damn those blue eyes._

She gave him the briefest of nods, barely this side of encouraging, and Tom was off to the races.

 

“I’m sure Harry is itching to go on his first away mission as XO.  Besides, he and Asil are the experts on Midas.  If there’s anything to be seen on – or missing from – sensors, they’ll find it.  And Baytart is getting pretty good with the Flyer ...”

 

He tapped his comm badge before she could tell him she’d changed her mind, pulling his lower lip between his teeth in a futile effort to suppress a victorious grin.

 

“Paris to Kim.  Harry, can you pop into the ready room please?”

 

…..

 

 

“Ease her down, Lieutenant.” 

 

Harry’s eyes were narrow slits as he stared at the view screen, overlaid as had been Voyager’s with spectrographic, infrared and a multiplicity of other readings.  He knew that Pablo Baytart hated flying by instruments only when there was a view screen available, but the vista it offered at the moment was not meant for a pilot’s eye. 

 

But Baytart was a professional, and did not require any reassurance.  Asil had fed the coordinates of her latest, well, _educated guess_ into the helm and he was headed straight for the target:  a small shadow, surrounded by spidery disruptions in the spectrographically confirmed presence of two of the more common metals on the planetoid – latinum and bernicium, covered in a layer of benomite.  Nearby, a major dilithium deposit, obviously heavily mined, now presented like something Harry privately thought of as a Swiss cheese. 

 

All the spectral disruptions were consistent with mining operations.

 

“Coming into visual range,” Baytart announced in the flat tone he used whenever he was at the helm.

 

“Switch over screen,” Harry ordered.  The light in the Flyer’s cabin changed, from the blue-and-green of the sensor input to the natural orange glow of the planetoid’s surface. 

 

“There.”  He pointed excitedly with his finger.  A vast, circular area appeared blurry and indistinct, but around its outer margins the evidence of new excavations could be clearly discerned.

 

“You were right, Asil – whoever is down there must have gotten so excited by whatever it is they’re harvesting that they’ve extended their activities beyond their cloaks.  Probably since Voyager was last in orbit here, or we might have noticed something.  A wonderful thing, greed.  Gets you every time.”

 

For a moment, all three officers studied the view screen intently, each lost in his or her own thoughts until Baytart stabbed at the screen with his long, delicate fingers.

 

“Can we extrapolate from that … outline where the cloaking devices are located?”

 

Unlike his fellow officers, Baytart was not an engineering or ops wizard by any stretch of the imagination, but when it came to flying at and hitting things with a phaser, he was more than capable of figuring out the most desirable target and the best way to get to it.  Harry nodded to Asil, whose fingers immediately started flying.

 

“Attempting to correlate inputs,” the Vulcan’s voice came from the ops console.

 

When she spoke again a few moments later, her flat tones belied the impact of what she had to say. 

 

“Commander, I believe I have succeeded in determining the location of the main cloaking emitters with a probability of eighty-seven-point-nine percent.  They appear to be located at some altitude above the site in question.”

 

“Satellites?”  Harry asked eagerly.

 

“They are at insufficient altitude to be considered satellites, sir.  They appear more in the nature of weather balloons, on the outer edge of the limited atmosphere of this planetoid.  The location would be consistent with the owners not wishing to accidentally attract the attention of other spacecraft.”

 

“Permission to approach to within tactical range, sir?” 

 

Baytart’s hands were clearly itching to pull a trigger.  _Any_ trigger.  He had been close friends with Ensign Mike Parsons, late a junior security officer on Voyager who had taken on an assignment on the Gettysburg with his partner, Ashmore.  Rumours had linked Baytart and Parsons during the early part of Voyager’s journey through the Delta Quadrant; their friendship had evidently not suffered from whatever falling-out had occurred between them on the romantic level, and Baytart had remained close to both Mike and later his new partner.  Both had perished on their new ship, and he more than any of the ‘old Voyagers’ had taken the news hard.

 

Asil, despite her own Vulcan imperturbability, was not immune to the undercurrent in the pilot’s question.  She looked up, both eyebrows raised in protest, and spoke before Harry could respond.   
  


“May I remind you that we do not have permission for a more … robust engagement, Commander.  Admiral Janeway made it very clear that this was to be a reconnaissance mission only.”

 

Vulcans.  _Spoilsports,_ Tom always called them.

Harry’s mind started racing.  Clearly, in order to have a closer look at what lay beneath the cloak they would need to get rid of it, but Asil was right and he knew it. 

 

 _What would Janeway do?_ No.  Harry knew the answer to that; she’d already given it.  She’d do nothing.

 

 _What would Tom do?_   A slow, devious smile spread on Harry’s face.  _Yep, that’s exactly what he would do._

Plausible deniability …

 

“Set course for one of those … balloon-satellites, Pablo,” he instructed.  “Shields on maximum, and reverse polarity to repel any object we might encounter.”

 

“Sir?”  Asil looked puzzled.  “Our instructions are …”

 

“… not to engage in offensive action, that’s correct.”  Harry felt just a little smug now.  “But these things are _invisible_ , right?  So if we accidentally hit one of them, that’s just … well … an accident, right?”

 

Baytart did not wait for Asil to take issue with that neatly circular logic.  He started flicking switches and punching buttons, as enthusiastically as Harry had ever seen him do anything.

 

Seven minutes later, a small rumbling vibration shook the Flyer’s cabin but was quickly compensated for by the inertial dampeners.  Harry broke into a grin.

 

“Lieutenant,” he said with an admonishing shake of his head.  “Did you run into something?  How often do I have to tell you to be more careful when flying the Captain’s pride and joy?”

 

Baytart turned halfway around.  “Whoops,” he said, in a semi-apologetic tone that was convincing only as an imitation of his former Chief Conn Officer.

 

Asil’s eyebrow went up, but she was all business when she reported that the Flyer appeared to have sudden and … entirely unexpected visual access to a hitherto unknown base on the disputed planetoid.

 

“On screen,” Harry commanded, with an appreciative gleam in his eyes.  Maybe some Vulcans did have a sense of humour after all?

 

On the planetoid’s surface, a small swarm of dragline excavators was moving as if in a slow-motion dance across a wide-open pit, removing surface deposits on a scale that would have made a resource-starved Voyager crew green with envy in the Delta Quadrant.  They were scraping off benomite deposits, judging by the lines of analytic information scrolling across the bottom of the screen, with smaller units of unknown provenance following behind the excavators, presumably detection equipment re-scanning for deposits that might have been obscured by the thick layer of benomite. 

 

Farther off to the side, pressed up against a cliff face, enormous extractors with extendable drill heads had been set up for what appeared to be a deep horizontal excavation – likely dilithium mining, based on what Harry remembered from his past encounter with the geological formations likely to produce the precious crystals.

 

None of the equipment looked particularly familiar, but then Harry wasn’t exactly an expert in strip or any other form of mining beyond what they managed to improvise in the Delta Quadrant.  What really attracted his attention, though, were the small, modular units at the top of the deep pit – clearly accommodations for the personnel running the extractors and excavators.  He gave a silent whistle.

 

“Well, I’ll be damned.” 

 

Harry reached out and with a slam of his flat hand, opened a comm link to Voyager. 

 

“Tom – Captain -- we found what seems like a fully functional mining operation here.  The equipment could be from anywhere, Federation, Cardassia, Ferenginor – I have no idea.  But the one thing you won’t like is what they have for personnel accommodations.  You’d recognize it.”

 

The comm remained silent for a few seconds, indication of Tom’s long intake of breath at the other end, and brief scrolling through his memory banks, looking for the necessary connections.

 

“Let me guess.  Familiar construction aspect?”

 

“Yeah.  Rigellian ground station modules.  Standard models.  Six of them, interconnected.  Separate storage units and shuttle port in what appears to be a standard layout.”

 

A deep sigh from Voyager’s bridge that was loud enough to transmit, followed by a rather un-Captain-like, “Aww, shit.  Like what we found in the Alnitak belt, the place the Orions used as a way station?”

 

“Yeah.  Just like that.  _Exactly_ like that.  Only much bigger.”

 

 _The Orion Crime Syndicate._   Spreading its wings farther and farther afield, as predicted, and now proven.  Again.

Tom found himself almost wanting to break out into a glee-less cackle.  What had Boothby said again – _Starfleet will have to send you away for a bit, to keep you away from those who might mean you harm._ Well, so much for that …

“Of course we can’t tell for sure whether it’s the Syndicate,” Harry added, sounding unconvincing even to himself.  “I mean, those Rigellian modules are pretty widely available.  They probably don’t even check who they sell these things to, and for what purpose.  Last time I looked, the Rigellian economy sucked, and they’re pretty hard up for cash, so …”

 

“Yeah, right, Harry.  And the Orions would be the _last_ folks to move into a disaster zone and skim off whatever profits they can, while no one’s in charge or everyone’s too busy to look.  _Please_.”

 

Asil had followed the short exchange with keen ears, but rather than offer unnecessary commentary she continued to refine the imagery she was able to obtain, now that the cloaking system was partially disabled.  She focused in on small vessels sitting beside the structure – likely runabouts, used to connect to whatever larger cargo vessel would pick up the harvested minerals.

 

“You will be interested to know, sirs, that judging by the hull construction the mining colony’s main transport capability appears to be primarily Ferengi in origin, sir,” she said, “although there are a couple of small hybrid vessels that could include Rigellian or Orion provenance.”

 

Asil did not need to mention that in the barely fifteen years since contact had been established with the Ferengi Alliance, even Starfleet’s elite intelligence agency had been unable to penetrate very deeply into Ferengi databases.  Protecting against industrial espionage was hardwired into the Ferengi DNA, it would appear, and many of their systems had proven impervious.  Lately, efforts had begun to recruiting individual Ferengi into Starfleet in order to improve success rates, but that program remained in its infancy.  In the meantime, the picture the Federation had of Ferengi technology was a patchwork at best.

 

“None of the shuttle types represented below are referenced specifically in known data bases, Captain, although certain design features are consistent with those found in Ferengi runabouts that have been encountered in Federation space.” 

 

Asil paused for effect – a trait Vulcans liked to believe was free of the all-too-human emotion of _smugness,_ although they fooled no one _– before_ adding,  “One of the models is, however, consistent with the ships used by the Children of Talasar.  I believe we have found the purveyor of their vessels, if not of their weaponry.”

 

Harry was running the implications through his head, even as Tom’s voice came over the comm.  He had clearly added one and one, and arrived at two.

 

“So what we are looking at here, is a possible alliance between the Ferengi and the Orion Syndicate.” 

 

Harry didn’t feel anywhere nearly as skeptical as he sounded when he replied, “Out here?  With the Ferengi providing their own state-of-the-art equipment to … to a terrorist organization?  Now I’ve seen everything.”

 

“Not that far off the wall, come to think of it, Har.  You know, that private space station in the Snowflakes, what was it called, Kalpak?  I don’t think you stopped there with the Enterprise, but Voyager did.  I looked into its history while we were en route, and there was considerable intel that the Ferengi initially wanted a piece of the action.  Plus, Ayala reported seeing some of them in the bar.  Makes sense that after they were cut out of the station, they’d look for other business deals with the Syndicate.  These guys smell profit several parsecs away.“

 

Asil looked up from her console, no longer capable of staying out of the discussion.

 

“It would indeed be entirely logical for Ferengi interests to be engaged here, Commander.  The planetoid we call ‘Midas’ is well outside Federation space, but close enough to it to provide access to its markets, for whatever resources are mined here.”

 

“Logical indeed, Asil.  The Orion Syndicate is probably who’s reaching out to the locals; the Ferengi don’t like getting their hands dirty.  It makes perfect sense that the Orions would be the ones to equip the malcontents with ships – ships provided by the joint venture -- to keep the conflict going.  Bottom line is, they can all operate undisturbed and without competition, as long as the area is in dispute.  I wonder how the percentages fall.  Especially since _someone_ on Talar and Denaros must be getting a cut.”

 

He signed off, but not before asking Asil to record any additional spectro-analytical data from the mining operation, in the event it could, eventually, be traced into Federation space.  _Follow the money …_

 

“Sounds like you called it, Pablo,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair and swiveling it to face the pilot.  Baytart looked up from the conn, a puzzled frown creasing his face.

 

“When we first learned about Midas.  You said something like, _Happy Ferengi Christmas_ , didn’t you?  Positively prophetic, it turns out.”

 

“Yeah, guess I did, sir,” Baytart responded, more tired and cynical than pleased.  “Guess I did.”

 

…..

 

On Voyager’s bridge Tom turned to Kathryn Janeway, who had silently listened in on the conversation, and shook his head. 

 

“There’s still pieces missing.  Someone on Talar gave those terrorists the weapons.  That must have been an inside job, even if the Orions provided the means of delivery.  And besides, you can’t simply set up shop in the middle of a conflict zone without at least one of the main parties turning a blind eye, or providing protection.”

 

He paused, frowned, and added, “Time to have a chat with our newest brig inmates, I guess.”

 

Janeway, who had started pacing up and down the bridge with her hands on her hips, stopped in her tracks.  With an artless smile that Tom knew to be anything but, she agreed, adding, “Care to do the honours?  Since you’re so keen for me to get all the information I need?”

 

Tom’s eyes flew up, then narrowed before he shook his head again, this time in silent admiration.  He should have known there’d be a price to pay for wringing a concession out of the admiral …  Much later, he would tell his wife in the privacy of their quarters:  _And just like that, Bee, she remembered – she’s still the Queen._

 

Biting back any number of remarks, he said instead, “Yeah, sure.  I may require your help with the Big Cheeses though.  Naldar’s made it pretty clear that he considers Alqil’s arrest – how did he put it?  -- _an outrage against all principles of diplomatic relations._ Ditto with Karon, although he seemed more concerned with not getting throttled by Qorath for allowing us to jail his sidekick.”

 

As an afterthought, he added, “That jerk does have a bit of a temper.  I’d be scared too, if I had to share a planet with him.” 

 

Janeway thought for a moment.  “Fine.  You seem to get along nicely with Marshall Talith though, so why don’t you allow her to sit in when you talk to Alqil.  That should appease Naldar.  And take Karon’s own aide with you, when you go after the Major.”

 

Tom ran a number of scenarios through his head before responding, pausing briefly over the inconvenient realization that he actually relished – rather than resented – the idea of working with the Talari Marshall again. 

 

He tried to make himself think something along the lines of ‘Next thing Paris, you’ll be inviting Crell Moset for dinner,’ but found himself unable to sustain that illusion for very long. 

 

"Good idea, Admiral," he managed to get out, even as Walters, who was manning Ops in Asil’s absence, announced that Voyager was being hailed.  Tom pursed his lips at Janeway in question and turned to the screen.  

"Guess Harry stirred something up down there.  Let's have them on screen." 

 

“Federation Starship Voyager,” a reedy voice said, “this is Daimon Kol of the Ferengi Commerce Authority.”

 

The screen filled with the unmistakable oversized, bulbous head of a Ferengi male; even if he had not identified himself by his rank, his status would have been apparent by the rainbow-hued trim and embroidery on his tunic and matching neck cover, not to mention his arrogant tone of voice.  This was not a fly-by-night operator, Tom realized.

 

“Your shuttle craft damaged one of our defensive systems.  We demand compensation, which we will take in the form of the shuttlecraft itself.  A number of our vessels have been dispatched to seize it and return it to our operations base.”

 

A calculating glint stole into his piggish eyes, and his expensively filed teeth gleamed in a self-satisfied smirk.

 

“We fully understand that you are on a diplomatic mission here, and that you have no authority to use force except in self-defence.  Which clearly is not applicable to the present situation, especially as we are operating with the consent of both Denarians and Talari officials.  We will, of course, file a formal protest with Starfleet Headquarters about this unlawful interference with our legitimate business interests.”

 

Tom suppressed a curse, and exchanged a brief glance with Janeway, whose grey eyes had widened perceptibly at that latest piece of information – true or not, it could be … another game changer. 

 

 _Command and control –_ whose responsibility to make response?  A primal anger bubbled up in Tom.

 

_The Flyer is mine, you bald-headed, gold-digging little shit.  No contest._

He saw the tacit agreement in Janeway’s eyes even before she gave him the briefest of assenting nods.  _Go for it, Captain, the Envoy has to stay neutral …_ She moved further away from the capture of the screen, keeping herself well out of sight. __

With his left hand Tom opened a second comm channel to ensure that Harry would hear.  He could probably use another lesson in dealing with the Ferengi – it had been a while -- and he’d to get his engagement orders at the same time.

 

“Daimon Kol.  So pleased to meet you, and hear of your plans for my ship.  Now _you_ hear _this_.  If I remember correctly, the one-hundred-and-thirty-fourth Rule of Acquisition says, ‘There's always a catch.’  In this case, the catch is this: The Delta Flyer is my own personal vessel.  She doesn’t belong to Starfleet.  I don’t know who you got your information from, but if you touch that ship I’m perfectly within my rights to fire back.  On your ships, and on your little operation on Midas where they come from.  Lawful defence of property -- I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.  I’ll pay Starfleet back for the ammunition, and that’ll be the end of that.  You can protest all you want, but you’d still be dead.”

 

Tom deliberately avoided looking at Janeway, who emitted a small snorting sound beside him.  His voice turned far less pleasant as he continued.

 

“Oh, and one more thing.  If you happen _not_ to be dead when I’m done with you, do be careful of your Orion business partners.  They’re even worse than the Ferengi when it comes to considering loss of profit a failure.  I’d read up on their favourite methods of execution now, if I were you.  Just so you’re ready.” 

 

Daimon Kol’s mouth had opened at the last sally, looking slightly less sure of himself; the shot about the Orions appeared to have hit home.  But before he could say anything else Tom snapped off the contact – no need to be polite with the Ferengi, they’d just use the opportunity to feed you a new lie, or find your weakness.

 

He ordered Coulthard to head for Midas, to back up the Flyer if necessary.  Orders for Ayala at Tactical followed, rapid-fire style.

 

“Shields up, and arm phasers.”

 

Janeway laid her hand on his arm. 

 

“Tom, if they do attack the Flyer, yes I agree, her defence is your call, just as it was against the Children of Talasar.  But you’ll need to consider what the impact on both the peace negotiations and on Federation relations with the Ferengi Alliance will be, if you fire on that mining operation.  Especially if Daimon Kol is correct, and they have permission to be there.”

 

Tom frowned.  “Do you actually believe him?” he asked, his voice incredulous. 

 

“I mean, he claims to have authority from _both_ Denaros and Talar.  If that’s the case, and they can actually agree with each other to who should be mining here, then what the hell is this war all about?”

 

Janeway studied the air before her, before replying.

 

“Well, we don’t know whether the ‘officials’ Kol referred to are representatives of the actual governments, or someone who claims to speak for them.  We already know Talar is split into factions, and Karon and Qorath are barely on speaking terms.  Both delegations already have subordinates in the brig, for reasons that are most likely linked to what we just heard.  I doubt Kol would make a distinction between factions.  It also doesn’t necessarily mean either side knows anything of the other’s involvement.”

 

“Yeah, it certainly fits that they’re playing one side against the other.”

 

But then Tom’s exasperation got the better of him, and he ran his fingers through his no longer regulation-short hair. 

 

“You know, these people really are getting to me.  First they kill each other in the most excruciating ways, or on the largest scale possible.  Then as soon as they decide they’ve had enough and come to _you_ to help them get along, some of them try and blow up the peace negotiations to make sure the conflict keeps going.  While another lot – from both sides yet, even though they normally can’t agree even on the shape of the negotiating table -- sells the Grand Prize out to third parties.”

 

He turned to the console beside his chair to check the status of Voyager’s battle readiness, but then looked up again at Janeway, who had resumed pacing and was now standing behind him.  His voice dripped contempt as he spoke.

 

“And you know what the real irony of all this is?  Here they are, the Denarians and the Talari, fighting like ferrets in a bag, killing each other and anyone who gets in the way – and if that bloody anomaly keeps expanding at the rate it is, this whole fucking sector will be swallowed up within the next couple of decades, starting with the Talari colonies.  Bye-bye Midas, Talar, Denaros, and the whole kit and caboodle.  And the only ones who win are the blood-sucking profiteers who got their latinum out in time.”

 

Janeway stared at him in sudden fascination – no, not at Tom, at something above his head, possibly on the view screen but more likely beyond even that. 

 

Her own thoughts, shaped mere hours ago, rang in her head:  _What did Talar need from Denaros that its destruction could not provide?_

She slapped herself on the hip and her mouth opened and shut twice before she could speak.  When she did it was in a low rasp that only Tom could hear, and even that was likely by accident rather than design.

 

"Of _course_.  That game changer I was looking for.  It wasn't Farqoth, the Ferengi, or the Orion Syndicate after all.  It's been right under our nose, all this time..."  
  


__________________________________________________

 

NOTE:

 

1.  Some internal references in this chapter are to my story, “Off the Shoulder of Orion,” but I promise you there’s no prejudice if you haven’t read it.  (Of course, I'd be happy if you did!)

 

2.  A _double touche_ (double hit) is something unique to epée fencing, in which the scoring apparatus blocks out anything that might happen after a valid hit is scored.  But if both opponents score a hit within 4/100th of a second, both scoring lights will come on, and each fencer is awarded a hit. 

 

This happens far more often than you might think – fencing is, after all, a sport built on reaction and speed -- and therefore can be used quite strategically.  Thus, the competitor who is ahead on points may at times not bother defending himself, as long as he knows he can score at the same time as his opponent.

 


	12. Carte Noire

“Voyager to Delta Flyer – if attacked, you are free to fire at will.  Shoot to disable only, if possible.  We don’t need to another conflict.”

 

The order could not have been clearer, or more welcome.  Harry looked with a jaundiced eye at the small swarm of shuttlecraft that were rising from the planetoid’s surface. 

 

He didn’t know their tactical capabilities, but he did figure that a bunch of civilian runabouts, even if run by ruthless criminals, were likely no match for the Delta Flyer and her seasoned crew.  Up to a point, anyway, but to his jaded eye there weren’t enough of _them_ to reach that point.  In fact, Harry found himself quietly amazed how far that point seemed to have receded over the years.  _Ensign no more, Harry,_ he silently congratulated himself, as he straightened his shoulders and got ready for battle.

 

“Evasive maneuvers, Pablo, but do try and put us behind two of them.  Let’s show them what the Flyer can do, scare them off maybe.  Asil, make sure they have no nasty surprises aboard those things.”

 

Asil had been around humans enough to interpret this last statement as an order to scan the alien vessels for potentially dangerous energy signatures.

 

“Negative, sir,” she announced.  “Conventional armaments only, mostly of Ferengi design.”

 

“Target approaching, sir,” Baytart announced from the helm.  “Shields are up.”

 

“Let them fire first.”

 

That order hurt, but Harry knew he had to give it in order to be able to claim self-defense.  Diplomatic niceties … and how had Tom put it?  Plausible deniability?  Fortunately, his opponents obliged quickly, and ineffectively.

 

“Free for all,” he muttered to himself barely concealing an eager grin.  Lieutenant Commander Harry Kim, First Officer of the USS Voyager, in his first solo fire fight.  Good thing his mother wasn’t aware of what he was doing – she would doubtless send Tom Paris a nasty comm.

 

Harry tapped a few commands into the console, and a sudden flame bloomed in the stern of one of the two vessels within range.  A second burst exploded closely enough to the small runabout to toss it sideways, like a leaf in the wind.

 

Two nearly simultaneous explosions rocked the Flyer; two of the shuttles were coming in from the side., obviously slightly more competent than the first two.

 

“Shields?”

 

“Holding at eighty-five percent,” Asil’s voice was clipped and clear.

 

“Second run, sir?”  Baytart asked, sounding hopeful. 

 

“By all means,” Harry responded grimly.  As far as he was concerned the more of these vessels they incapacitated, the less _efficient_ the illicit operations on the planetoid would be.   Self-defence was a good and honourable thing, but made even better if you could use it for a spot of retaliation or to impart a lesson.

 

One more successful shot, and the remaining three ships peeled off and headed back to the Midas surface.  _That was easy,_ Harry thought, only a little smug. 

 

“We’re being hailed, Commander,” Asil announced.  She put the caller on screen without being asked.

 

To no one’s surprise, a Ferengi visage filled the view.  Daimon Kol; Harry recognized the voice from when Tom had patched him into the conversation earlier.

 

“Federation vessel.  We will hold you responsible for any damage …” 

 

“You sent six ships after us, Daimon, with the express goal of taking mine.  Your ships fired first.  Feel free to register your complaint with Federation authorities.  But I suggest you just write your losses off against whatever profits you made on that planetoid.” __

He made a quick slashing motion against his throat, which Asil correctly interpreted as instruction to cut off the feed.  Harry smiled, pleased with himself.  Any further diplomatic fallout from the Flyer’s recce and this little confrontation was above his pay grade; besides, there was no need to waste time with something the Ferengi had already raised with Tom.  He nodded to Baytart.

 

“Take us back to Voyager, Pablo.  Mission accomplished, I think.”

 

…..

 

With the additional information transmitted by the Flyer, the questions that could be put to Alqil and Pakoth, respectively, had the luxury of being quite pointed.  Tom decided they wouldn’t bother with Farqoth again, given Janeway’s report of her discussion with him.  There wasn’t much to be gained from listening to the irrational rantings of a fanatic who was at best a bit player in this game.

 

But Tom most certainly did want to hear about those who had made it possible for that bit player to get into a position where he and his ilk could do the damage they had.  The sad and quiet little girl who temporarily shared his daughter’s room demanded no less.

 

Alqil’s interrogation was a breeze, as far as Tom was concerned, assisted greatly by the man’s respectful deference to Marshall Talith.  Or maybe it was the icy way in which she had put him to a very simple choice at the beginning:  he could make his future court martial significantly easier if he provided details of how Farqoth and his cohorts had gotten their hands on weapons marked for disposal, or … harder.

 

Tom’s ears pricked up at that, but he was assured that in the context of the Talari justice system -- where treason was dealt with by the military regardless of the accused’s status – did not mean torture.  With some indignation, Talith explained that her people, unlike their Denarian enemies, may be a little prone to summary and public execution, but they were _not_ torturers.  Treason could be punishable by death -- or not, depending on the level of cooperation an accused was willing to provide.  In the event, Alqil chose life, and sang like a bird.

 

Apparently, Naldar’s desire to pursue a peace agreement with the Denarians – which had been communicated by him to his inner circle suddenly, just after Kyven – had not sat well with many of them.  The only of his advisers who seemed to be aware of his plans were his deputy, back on Talar, and a couple of senior intelligence officials.  No one else knew what the information had been that might have caused the Supreme Talon to change course just when Talar seemed to have the advantage, and dissent was rife.  It was obviously very closely held, for some reason, and the cessation of hostilities therefore deemed to be neither credible nor justified.

 

But unseating the Supreme Talon before his term was not in the Talari tradition, and the discontent brewed without an adequate outlet.  That is, until an alien trader offered to act as a go-between with certain other malcontent factions in the Outer Rim, who could take action considered unacceptable on the home world.  The assumption was that if those factions were to be successful in undermining the peace discussions, and the conflict with Denaros to roar back to full-out war, then Naldar would have little choice but to go along.

 

The alien trader – a humanoid with pronounced cheekbones, a Rigellian based on holo images shown to Alqil – demanded relatively little by way of compensation for his brokering activities:  Talari vessels were asked to overlook certain activities on the resource-rich planetoid.  This was easily done, since Naldar had already ordered a cessation of expeditionary activities in the area so as not to prejudice his precious peace talks.  And if the Supreme Talon changed his mind, orders could easily be adjusted without his knowledge.

 

And yes, Alqil was prepared to provide Marshall Talith with a list of names of others involved in the little conspiracy.  This included the other civilian member of the Talari delegation, whom Tom immediately ordered to be put under 24/7 guard. Talith readily pointed out to Tom, in Alqil’s hearing, that those others would not be subject to the same … leniency considerations when it came to sentencing as he had been. 

 

This information did not appear to deter Alqil, who seemed sanguine about exposing his fellow conspirators to a fate he himself had escaped.  He became almost animated, though, when he was reminded that his little deal in favour of the Children of Talasar had almost cost him his own life.  Yes, that had not exactly been planned.  Or foreseen.  And it was clear that he resented the group’s actions with all the righteous indignation of someone blindsided by his own lack of foresight.

 

“Was that why you tried to kill them?  Punishment?” 

 

It had been pretty clear from the holovid recordings that Alqil had expected both the Childrens’ operatives to be in the brig when he had come to deal with them; the audio relating to his brief hesitation and questions to Farqoth’s sidekick had been reconstructed by Voyager’s skilled ops staff as a question relating to his whereabouts, followed by a curse.  Yes, foresight and planning were not a Talari strength, Tom surmised; neither was the necessary intellectual flexibility to change a pre-set course of action.  _I would have just left …_

 

“Or did you murder him to keep him from exposing your cozy little arrangement with the Ferengi and the Syndicate?  Hoping that, somehow, you could get to Farqoth later?”

 

Obviously, the death penalty for treason, for a man as keen on self-preservation as Alqil seemed to be, was a powerful incentive for murder.  Especially if he thought it might come with diplomatic immunity.

 

But by now, Alqil clearly felt that he had talked enough, and was starting to clam up.  It was one thing to incriminate other people and expose a political conspiracy – quite another to go into details about matters relating to personal culpability.

 

Not one to waste time, Tom decided to wrap things up and gestured to the security officers to take Alqil back to the brig, where the number of guards had been doubled and reinforced by personnel in the corridor outside.

 

“Well, that was enlightening,” he couldn’t refrain from commenting to Talith as they left the brig. 

 

“You go uncork a bottle of fanaticism, and you never know what you get once the genies come flying out.”

 

When she looked at him in slight bewilderment at the unfamiliar metaphor, he elaborated:

 

“Some of the longest-lasting wars in my planet’s history were caused by ignorant political hacks, wanting to influence world events by making sweetheart deals with armed thugs, without an actual clue about who they were dealing with and what those people would do with the stuff they were given – whether it was money, weapons, or power.  Or that the thugs would stop listening, once they became self-sustaining, if not earlier.  Happened again and again.  Those politicians never seem to learn.  Still haven’t, far as I can tell.”

 

He sighed.  “Last time, they made such a deal with the Cardassians.  That went _real_ well.  Ask my wife about it sometime.”

 

…..

 

Pakoth was a bit more of a challenge.  He refused to talk until Mike Ayala, who had undertaken that interrogation given that Tom might not be considered sufficiently objective, thought to reassure him that he had nothing to fear from Marshall Qorath.  In fact, the former Maquis – never shy about improvising – convinced the good Major that since his primary offence had been committed against Federation property and personnel, including his own rather formidable but not murderously inclined Captain, he would likely never set foot on Denaros again and would remain in protective custody until such time as someone figured out what to do with him.

 

Loyalty, it turned out, was a fickle mistress, and no competition at all for good, old-fashioned anger, once Pakoth was reassured of his personal wellbeing.  Unleashed, he made no secret of his antipathy for his thuggish and unpleasant superior.  A superior who had ordered him onboard the Flyer, exposing him to potential death at the hands of the Children of Talasar; and had ordered him to stop any potential investigation of activities on Midas on pain of death – all without any tactical instructions, a plan or tools, and with only his limited wits as a weapon. 

 

The unlocked rifle locker had at first appeared to be a stroke of good fortune, but Pakoth admitted that he wasn’t all that sorry that things hadn’t worked out, since he had no clue what he’d have done had the Flyer’s occupants actually surrendered.  Maybe he’d have killed Talith, just because it would bring him a certain fame back home, but other than that he had been rather short of ideas.

 

Ayala brought him back on track by asking how long he had been aware of the mining operations on Midas.  Quite some time, as it turned out.  Apparently, the same alien trader who had insinuated himself into the backrooms of Talari power – or another of his race – had approached the Denarian military leadership just before the attack on Kyven.  Although this time, the Rigellian – likely an Orion operative given the Syndicate’s greater capacity for subtlety, compared to the Ferengi -- had extracted the commitment not to interfere not in exchange for aiding a political cause.  No, the promise had been given for the most simple thing of all:  a cut of the profits. 

 

The majority of the spoils went to Qorath himself, of course.  The remainder was shared among those of his minions, like Pakoth, who were engaged in the deployment of Denarian ships that might interfere with the operations.  The fact that allowing such operations could extend a war his civilian leadership was trying to end, and lead to more deaths on both sides, had not bothered Qorath in the least, according to Pakoth -- quite the contrary.  Without a conflict, the Marshall’s power and influence would wane instantly.  This way, at the very least, he would be set up nicely for an unwanted retirement.  Continued war or a lucrative peace -- a win-win situation, really, every way Qorath would look at it.

 

And no, Pakoth did not think that anyone on Denaros had known about the Children of Talasar, let alone Talari assistance to those same operators.  Nor had he personally done the obvious calculation:  that by playing both sides to the conflict, the alien traders had created a safe space for themselves in which to skim off untold profits from the very thing Denaros was fighting for.  He could see it now, of course, but didn’t think even that would have particularly bothered his boss.  As long as his cut stayed the same.

 

Ayala shook his head when he briefed Tom on what he had learned, his large hands balled into fists that he barely managed to stop from slamming into the desk.  His dark eyes were smoldering coals, seeing something very far away.

 

“You’d think I’d have learned from the Cardassian war that money is the most reliable fuel for conflict.  Every one of the dilithium crystals the Ferengi and their Orion associates haul out of the ground on Midas is covered in blood, Tom.  _Every last one_.  And they just dig ‘em up, transport ‘em, and sell ‘em.  And nobody gives a shit, as long as they get rich.”

 

“Yeah.  I know, Mike.” 

 

What was there to say, really?  Utopia was a long way away.  Tom clapped the big security officer on the shoulder. 

 

“Let’s make sure that whatever Janeway comes up with by way of a plan for these people will put a stop to it here, at least.”

 

…..

 

 

It was clear from the outset that the meeting Janeway had called for the late afternoon would be configured somewhat differently than previous ones.  With two of the Talari civilian aides, Qorath and his subordinate variously in the brig and under house arrest, the pool of available peace negotiators had shrunk to almost manageable proportions.  Just having the Denarian Marshall out of the room was worth several kilometers worth of her nerve strands, she figured, and would bring down the mandatory posturing by a significant percentage.

 

She headed for the holodeck flanked by Tom, who had provided the essential details of the interrogations in his ready room, and Asil, who carried the small projector Janeway herself had used for her initial briefing of Voyager’s senior staff.  Harry and Icheb trailed a few steps behind.  All five Starfleet officers looked grim, but determined. 

 

Janeway was dying to get on with the substance of her meeting, but she also knew that there would be a bit of theatre to go through first.  The fallout from putting a good portion of two diplomatic delegations under arrest could be good for as much as an hour, and she had entreated Tom to be patient …

 

“… and keep my big mouth shut?”  He twinkled at her a little, taking advantage of the only ray of humour either of them had been able to find in the day.

 

“Yes, Captain.  That would be good.  Even if it _is_ a lot to ask of you.”

 

He smirked at her, but wisely kept his promise to the possible.

 

“I’ll try, Admiral.  I’ll try.” 

 

Before either of the delegations could complain, Kathryn announced peremptorily that the disproportionate number of Starfleet personnel in the room was necessary for the main agenda item.  She refused to elaborate.  All would become clear in due course.

 

After only a token protest about the number of grey uniforms, Naldar was good for the opening salvo, albeit one that was unusually muted -- a clear signal that he was just going through the motions. 

 

“Alqil is a Talari national and as such is not subject to Federation law.  Regardless of what he is accused of doing, which is in any event _undoubtedly_ the work of Denarian perfidy, I require his release to my custody.”

 

Kathryn took a deep breath and gave her well-rehearsed reply, keeping her pronunciation very clear in order to ensure that the universal translator couldn’t mess up.

 

“This is a diplomatic mission, covered by the customary law of interplanetary relations.  You agreed to its application when you asked the Federation to mediate these negotiations.  It says that in the absence of a written agreement to the contrary, the immunity of foreign envoys is limited to actions done in the exercise of their official duties.  You will agree that murdering fellow nationals or a member of Starfleet, and attacking others, is hardly an exercise of any delegate’s _official duties_.”

 

For good measure, she raised an eyebrow, upped the voltage of her glare, and added, “Unless you would like to argue that they were _ordered_ to commit these acts in pursuit of a diplomatic objective?”

 

Kathryn made eye contact with both the Supreme Talon and President Karon, who had the good grace to shake their heads vigorously at such an offensive suggestion – in near unison at that.  Satisfied, she concluded, “Whether or not Mr. Alqil or Major Pakoth will be returned to their home planets to stand trial will be for the Federation’s and your respective court authorities to sort out.”

 

Kathryn Janeway was clearly the expert on diplomatic privileges and immunities, but Tom Paris was Starfleet’s undisputed – if blessedly uncrowned -- King of Arrest and Detention.  Besides, one of the delegates in question had been captured on a vid murdering a member of his crew, while the other had waved a compression rifle in his face.  And so he felt perfectly justified to add his two slivers of latinum worth; promises only went that far, after all.

 

“An agreement that will be made a lot easier if we keep them safe and secure in the meantime. _In my brig_.”

 

Kathryn cast him a quick look, not so much because she was put out by his intervention – with which she agreed – but to see whether he was joking.  _My brig?_   But Tom seemed quite serious, and she concluded that he was simply referring to the fact that the suspects’ current place of detention happened to be on his ship.  She picked up the thread again.

 

“As for the other two, you will note that they are merely under house arrest, since the offences they are alleged to have committed do not affect the Federation.  In the meantime, though, I find them unacceptable as participants in these negotiations.  And it is within Captain Paris’ discretion to decide what to do with non-Federation personnel onboard his ship.  Apparently, he has decided on house arrest.  I have no say in this matter.”

 

Fortunately, formalities having been observed and all the necessary things said, neither Karon nor Naldar seemed intent on pursuing the matter further, and Tom was spared having to defend his detention orders.  In fact, Karon seemed positively euphoric at the absence of his brutish military adviser.

 

“You may rest assured that Marshall Qorath will be held responsible for Major Pakoth’s conduct on Denaros,” he advised, somewhat unnecessarily and with almost unseemly glee. 

 

Tom exchanged a quick glance with Kathryn; if they had suspected a division between the civilian and military members of the Denarian delegation before, this pretty well sealed it, as far as he was concerned.  The next hour or so would tell them just where the Talari stood in this regard.

 

“Now, the real reason I have called you here.”

 

Kathryn nodded to Asil, who flicked on the holo projector she had quietly and unhurriedly set up during the preliminary round. 

 

The model of the binary system and the two worlds’ respective colonies that Janeway had used earlier filled the centre between the conference tables.  Both Presidents blinked at the casual display of superior technology, but said nothing.  Talith, whose mind seemed to be perpetually on ‘record’ when it came to Starfleet technology, took in a hissing breath as she assessed the projector’s potential utility for tactical planning.

 

“Denaros and Talar.  The disputed planetoid.”  Kathryn pointed as she spoke.  “The outer colonies.”

 

She paused, making sure she had their attention.  Naldar’s left eye twitched a little as he stared at the projection.

 

“And this.  The Antarean subspace anomaly, as it first appeared approximately five years ago.”

 

Off to the edge of the projection, a ways away from Talaros and the two Talari colonies at the outer rim, a smudge appeared.

 

“The anomaly, as it appears today.”  Asil entered a couple of commands, and the smudge expanded to something resembling a pulsating, glowing fog with a dark, but discernible centre.

 

“And now, as we project it to look in three standard years, based on observations by Voyager’s science officers and data transmitted by the Gettysburg before its destruction.  _In five years.  Ten.  Twenty_.  _Twenty-five._ ”

 

With each figure Janeway uttered, Asil entered her modeling data, and the anomaly was seen to grow, swallowing more and more of the Antarean sector.  Talaros was engulfed just past the five-year mark.  Factoring in their respective orbits, Midas ceased to be visible between eight and nine years, and Talar itself at around fifteen.  By the twenty-two-year mark – having escaped an earlier doom as a result of its own orbit around the binary suns -- Denaros was staring at oblivion, with its own outer colonies only a few years behind.

 

Karon shifted uncomfortably in his chair, while his remaining assistant gasped in bewildered terror. 

 

“What happens when this … thing comes close to an inhabited world?” he asked, his voice almost breathless.

 

Having anticipated the question, Asil replied with her usual imperturbability. 

 

“The anomaly causes plasma storms and gravimetric shears of a magnitude that will make life unsustainable on any planetary surface.  The seismic shocks preceding the arrival of its core alone will be of a magnitude not measured by ordinary instrumentation.”

 

Tom swallowed a little; he had heard all this during Asil’s and Icheb’s earlier brief to Janeway, of course, but seeing the modeled projection drove the point home far more dramatically than words ever could.  His own earlier angry, slightly flippant words to Janeway echoed in his mind:  what they were staring at did indeed turn such concepts as war, defeat or victory into an irrelevant afterthought.  All that remained was for those in a position to do so to grab whatever they could and get the hell out of the sector.

 

Neither Karon and Naldar could tear their reluctant eyes off what they were seeing, but it was Talith’s reaction that changed everything, yet again.

 

Her eyes blazing with a cold fury, she was visibly restraining herself from grabbing Naldar by the throat.  Her voice was a laser-sharp knife as it cut the room, and she snarled two words:

 

“ _You knew.”_

 

And just like that, Kathryn Janeway’s own suspicion was confirmed.  Naldar shrank into his chair even as Karon cast a frowning look from one to the other, understanding blooming on his face as Talith continued. 

 

“When you ordered my ships to raid Denaros and destroy Kyven, _you knew_ that this war was already effectively over.”

 

Naldar raised both hands in reflexive defence, as if to ward off a physical attack, and responded – not as hotly as one might have expected, but nonetheless with a measure of righteousness that send a shiver down Kathryn’s spine. 

 

“We needed to end the conflict so that our two worlds could cooperate in finding a way to avoid destruction.  Our intelligence services indicated that there are scientists on Denaros who drew similar conclusions to those we have just been shown, and had been working on potential solutions.  I tried to open informal channels for discussion, but …  Denaros was closed to us.  They would not listen, and they left me no choice.”

 

Karon said nothing, wearing what Tom’s previous Captain, Will Riker, would call a perfect poker face.  Had he known about the incipient catastrophe?  Had he been told about it by his scientists, and written off their projections as alarmist fantasy?  Tom was almost certain but his focus was on Talith, who had risen in her seat, death in her eyes.    
  


“You knew, _Talon_.  And you thought it would be better to have us commit mass murder in the name of Talar, than to tell the truth publicly and force Denaros to the table?  What was Kyven to you – a mere stepping stone, to gain you a few points at the negotiating table?”

 

Her fury was palpable, and her hand reached for the side arm she would normally be wearing.  Naldar shrank back a little, but uttered not a single word.  No denials, but no more explanations, either.  He glared defiantly at Karon, who had remained silent.

 

With a few quick strides Tom was by Talith's side, reaching his long arms around her shoulders, gripping them, pulling her to him.  She was strong and fought against his hold, but he had the advantage of his superior height and weight.  He could feel the vibrations of uncontrollable rage surging through her body as she struggled to break free - the body of a woman he could not have borne to touch a few days earlier - and held her tight, lest she give in to the urge her twitching fingers betrayed most clearly.  There had been too many deaths onboard his ship already.

At last, she relaxed, even seemed to lean into him a little, her head grazing his shoulder as she looked to the ceiling.  And it was only Tom who heard her whisper, "I have killed millions for the sake of my world.   _Millions._  Will somebody just tell me why?"

He had no answer, but eventually she gave a shuddering breath and he knew to let go.

Slowly, Talith took her seat again, beside the Supreme Talon whom she had been ready to kill only moments earlier.  She still had a duty to perform.  A duty to her people, if not to the man whose robes announced to the world that he spoke on their behalf.

.....

 

Janeway cleared her throat, casting Tom a grateful look for defusing a potentially charged moment.

 

“We are not here to exchange recriminations,” she said.  “We are here to deal with facts.  And the fact is, Denaros and Talar both face an enemy that is far more dangerous than any extremist political faction, or even a conspiracy to profit from extending the conflict.  An enemy that they need to fear far more than even each other _._ ”

 

She stressed that last particularly, glaring at Karon and Naldar in turn, lest they miss her point. 

 

“Karon,” she snapped.  “I understand there has been research done on your planet that confirms Asil’s findings?”

 

He nodded, slowly, as if the admission was a painful one, and hastened to add, “But it was widely discredited as unsubstantiated and geared to induce panic.  In fact …” now it was his turn to clear his throat, “some of the proponents of this … theory were incarcerated.  They were believed to be working for the Talari Government, and seeking to instill panic in the civilian population.”

 

Tom almost had to bite his tongue to hold it at this disingenuous use of the passive voice.  He looked to Janeway for confirmation that she had caught the same thing; she had.  The research _was discredited?_ The scientists _were incarcerated?_ By whom, and on whose orders?

 

How many more times would inconvenient science be repressed, discredited or otherwise swept under the rug, in the name of political expediency and mindless efforts at appeasement?  The history of Earth was full of such examples, from the defenders of geo-centrism to those who chose to ignore the perils of climate change.

 

It was also now perfectly clear why those Talari attempts at dialogue – whether half-hearted or genuine was really irrelevant -- had failed.

 

Janeway too bit back any number of comments she might have made, but could not suppress one from escaping. 

 

“Did your scientists … including those that _were jailed_ … happen to come up with any ideas for how to resolve the problem?  Naldar seems to think there might have been something.”

 

Karon had the good grace to look chastised as his poker face slipped a little.  His eyes flickered from the throbbing image of the world-eating phenomenon in the middle of the room to Janeway, Naldar and back.  As was his wont, he studiously ignored Talith as if she were not present.

 

“I was given a report that … _claimed_ that a major explosion, if carried out at the right frequencies, could perhaps reverse the process.” 

 

He sounded increasingly defensive as he added, “I am not a scientist and don’t understand why this should be so.  Needless to say, he was not speaking for the Denarian Academy of Sciences and the report was written off by its council as entirely fanciful.  As fanciful and dangerous as the reports that suggested Denaros may be in danger from this anomaly.”

 

By the end of this statement Karon knew he had convinced no one – including himself.

 

Ignoring him for now, Janeway took Naldar’s measure across the room.  Just how much information had his intelligence officers discovered?  She watched him swallow, and knew that this was a report he had, in fact, seen.  How it had come to him might never be known.  One of the scientists, most likely – desperate for some kind of action.

 

And unlike Karon, Naldar _had_ acted.  She revised her opinion of the Supreme Talon, instantly and irrevocably. 

 

A man of pompous habits but shrewd instincts, including first and foremost in respect of his own political survival, he had nonetheless followed up on reports that a danger far greater than war threatened the survival of his people.  Likely aware that matters of cosmic proportions were incomprehensible to a public more interested in rehearsing well-known grievances, or finding distraction in the utterly irrelevant, he had set into motion what he likely thought to be the only course of action available:  To make peace with Denaros, so he could seek cooperation with its scientists and avert an inevitable catastrophe for both worlds. 

 

But at what price?  To bring Denaros to the table, he had unleashed hell, using Talith and her forces to deliver it.Sacrificing the few for the many …  But how many were  ‘few’ when you murder a continent?

 

It was certainly clear to Janeway now why Talar had stopped with the attack on Kyven, even though it could have obliterated its rival.  Naldar did need Denaros – and, it suddenly occurred to her, he might also have thought that he would need to preserve the remainder of his arsenal – to defeat the more powerful enemy.

 

And as the final part of his calculations, Naldar had counted on the Federation to make happen for him what direct efforts had failed to achieve -- all without once tipping his hand to anyone except, Kathryn suspected, a very small number of his inner circle.  In the meantime, Karon for his part was guilty of deliberate, willful blindness – allowing the habit of war to obscure a vision of a future in which both worlds were doomed, and refusing early peace overtures that might have saved a third of his people in the short term, and all of them in the long.

 

What was it with politicians …?

 

Kathryn turned from one to the other leader with a grim expression, but it was at Talith that her words were aimed. 

 

“Yes, Marshall, it appears that Supreme Talon Naldar believed the reports he had seen were true.  It is to his credit that he did so, although his strategy had horrifying consequences.  Including for you.”

 

She paused, and set her sights on Karon, who shifted nervously in the crosshairs.

 

“President Karon as well has much to answer for, first and foremost for his unwillingness to listen when words would still have been enough.  But as I said before, now is not the time for recriminations.  What we need is solutions.  I am open to any and all ideas.”

 

…..

 

Harry and Icheb straightened at Janeway’s unspoken invitation.  They had remained silent throughout the meeting so far, keenly aware that they were not sufficiently immersed in the status of the peace negotiations to pick up on any of the eddies and undercurrents around the table.  Harry still looked a little shell-shocked at the enormity of what he had heard, but rallied quickly.

 

All three, Harry, Icheb and Asil, had information and opinions about the anomaly that they were only too willing to share.

 

Prompted by Janeway’s nod, Harry proceeded to give a quick run-down on the physics of subspace anomalies in general, and the specific properties of the Antarean specimen such as they had been able to divine in the short time he, Asil and Icheb had spent studying it.  The data from the Gettysburg had helped.

 

“This phenomenon is, essentially, an opening into a different layer of space.  We call it a subspace anomaly, but that’s just shorthand for many different ways in which our space can connect with, and at times be pierced by, other dimensions.  The core of this one is basically a hole, a tear in the fabric that separates those dimensions.  And that other … dimension is gradually seeping into ours, consuming it.  We don’t know whether it will eventually stop on its own, but we must assume it won’t.”

 

Icheb jumped in at this stage, eagerly, his usually earnest, still often almost drone-like voice conveying his scientist’s excitement at a new discovery. 

 

“Voyager encountered a similar phenomenon when Species 8472 attempted to allow fluidic space to consume our own.  This phenomenon essentially folds space inside out, generating considerable energy forces in the process.  But I believe that the Denarian researchers were correct when they surmised that a targeted and substantial energy blast could cause the anomaly to collapse, and the rift to close.”

 

The scientist in Janeway carried out a brief battle with the diplomat; it was no contest.  She had to ask.

 

“Could the energy released by a number of fully functional Scourge weapons provide that effect?”

 

Asil chimed in.  “That is highly questionable.  The explosion must be carefully contained, Admiral, in order to create sufficient inward pressure to generate a singularity that could, in turn, implode the anomaly’s core.  The Scourge operates by dissipating the energy it creates.  The weapons are not designed to create a singularity.”

 

Tom perked up at this.  He had been focusing on Talith, and her barely controlled fury at the role she had unwittingly played in Naldar’s ill-conceived plan.  But it was her words that echoed in his head now.

 

“Did you say it needs to be _contained,_ Asil, in order to create a singularity?”

 

The Vulcan nodded dispassionately, her voice clinical.  “Indeed, Captain.  What is required is a targeted _im_ plosion, rather than an _ex_ plosion.”

 

“Right.”  Tom turned to Talith.  “Didn’t you tell us that your forces used something to stabilize the scourge, keep it from going off at the wrong time?  What was that again?”

 

Talith responded as if awakening, briefly, from a trance.  She was no scientist, but she did know the weapon she had used to secure Denaros’ presence at the peace table.

 

“Benomite crystals.”

 

"Benomite crystals?"  Icheb had been onboard the Flyer when Talith had mentioned their use by the Talari to Tom, but not heard her comment.  His mind was already latching on to the new information.

 

“Yes.  There are two molecular structures that are not affected by the Scourge.  Water -- and benomite.  The weapon’s effects can cross water, but they cannot go through it, and nothing underwater is affected by them.  But the structure of benomite actually restrains the explosion.  The weapons’ builders regularly used it to limit exposure in test explosions, and individual armaments are transported in casings lined with benomite crystals.”

 

“Could the benomite constrain multiple explosions to such an extent that they would be turned in on itself?”  Harry had followed the discussion with keen interest.  Talith shrugged.

 

“We never tried that.  We had no reason to.  We tested only a small number of individual weapons.  They are … not easy to produce.” 

 

Asil took the thread now, and ran with it. 

 

“Based on our observation of the weapon’s effects, it is certainly conceivable that a sufficient number of them under those circumstances could trigger a chain reaction that in turn could produce the required singularity.”

 

Janeway nodded at Icheb, who promptly started furiously entering data into his PADD, with Asil looking over his shoulders and making suggestions.  Within seconds, both were oblivious to their surroundings.

 

“Thanks, Ensign, Lieutenant -- let us know what your calculations yield.  In the meantime, we need to turn our minds to a large-scale source of benomite.”

 

Her crooked not-quite smile encompassed both Tom and Harry. 

 

“Can either of you think of such a place, gentlemen?”

 

______________________________________________________ 

 

NOTE:  When a fencer – or a coach, or (more rarely) a spectator – commits an infraction against honour and sportsmanship so severe that their continued presence at the tournament is considered undesirable, they get shown a black card by the referee:  the ‘ _carte noire’_ in the chapter heading _._   Usually this is preceded by one or more warnings (yellow and/or red cards), but not necessarily. 

 

Needless to say, when this happens – especially when it is done to a medal hopeful with both behavioural issues, a good management team and an influential country’s fencing association willing to back them up for the sake of a perceived greater glory -- all hell breaks loose, and the expulsion order is followed by appeals and endless discussions, with the judge often left dangling in the wind.  But if it is permitted to stick, the games are over for that competitor.

 

Chances are that there will be no black cards issued at the forthcoming London Olympics.  There is too much at stake to worry about what constitutes appropriate conduct.

 

 

 

 


	13. Combat

“How many units of the Scourge do you have remaining?”

 

Tom asked the question in his ready room.  Apart from Talith, only his First Officer was present.  Harry would need to factor the information into the calculations he was supervising with Voyager’s science and ops teams.  Still, even knowing that only Starfleet would have direct knowledge of the data, Talith’s reflexive response was silence.

 

Wars were won – and lost – with information such as that she had been asked to provide. 

 

“I have sworn to protect this information with my life.  Talari soldiers have been taken captive by Denaros, subjected to torture and died, protecting it.  And you expect me to … just give it to you?”

 

Tom shook his head, and decided to take another tack.  He could tell that Talith wanted to speak, knew that she must -- but there had been too many betrayals already and she would not readily add her own to the ones committed against her.  She would need to be told that her oath no longer bound her, or else, be given a reason to break it. 

 

“Talith – you know why we need this information.  It is not for strategic purposes, and will not be transmitted to Denaros.  We have calculated that we need at minimum …” he looked to Harry.

 

“One-hundred and forty-five.”

 

“… one hundred and forty-five devices of the power of those that were dropped on Kyven to generate enough force, if we want to implode the Antarean anomaly. “

 

He took a breath, held it for a bit. 

 

“So, fine.  Don’t tell me what you _do_ have in your arsenal.  Just tell me whether you have _enough_ for that specific purpose, whether we should even bother to calculate how much benomite we need, and figure out an appropriate mode of transport.”

 

Talith stared at him, unblinking.  It was clear to Tom that he was asking her to do went against everything she was trained to do, against every principle she had instilled in her own people.  More was needed.

 

And then he knew what she needed to hear.

 

“For Dary, and all the children who live.”

 

She swallowed, pale grey eyes boring into blue.  A crack in the physical universe, forcing the crumbling of another.  Finally, a nod.

 

“Yes.  We have enough.”

 

Harry punched his communicator, breathed into it with barely contained excitement.  “That’s a yes.  Proceed.”

 

But Tom wasn’t done with her, not yet. 

 

“How far away are they, at Warp Six?”  He carefully avoided, for now, the question as to the precise _where_.  That could wait.

 

Still, he met with more resistance, and a challenge.  Talith’s honour would not go quietly.  He could only hope that his respect for her position was evident to her, as he held her pale eyes with his.

 

“At Warp Six?  We have no ships that can go that fast.  I thought you would know that, Captain.”

 

“I _do_ know you don’t, Marshall.  Starfleet does, though, and we can’t afford snail pace.  How far away from our present location at Warp Six?”

 

Silence, then, “Two days.  Give or take.”

 

Again, Tom and Harry looked at each other, nodding.  It was unlikely that Voyager would be the ship to transport the weapons – not with its limited cargo capacity, and not with children aboard – but the information was required for Starfleet to calculate the number of vessels that would be needed to ferry them to the anomaly.  The assumption was that they would have to make several runs; time was therefore a vital element.

 

Talith turned to Tom, clearly not happy.  There would be no more information extracted from her today. 

 

“Am I free to go?”

 

_Where do you go, after breaking your oath?_

 

“Yes, thank you, Marshall.  Of course you are.”

 

Talith started to head for the sliding door, her face a mask of stone.  Tom followed her compact, erect form with his eyes.

 

“Would you like to participate in our planning?  I doubt there’s much _peace negotiating_ happening in the immediate future.  Not until we’ve got a viable plan laid out, anyway, and need everyone’s agreement.  We could use an experienced strategist.”

 

Talith hesitated a little, but turned only halfway.

 

“Thank you, Captain.  That is a most generous offer, and kindly meant.  But your science is more advanced than ours, and I would just be in the way.  Many things have happened in the last two days that bear reflection.  I could use some … time alone.”

 

 

…..

 

The next morning, those same calculations caused a pall over the briefing room.

 

“I am afraid it cannot be done, Captain, Admiral.” 

 

Rather than mask the import of Asil’s words her flat voice seemed to stress it, nor could she conceal the fatigue of an all-out, overnight effort. 

 

“There is no issue as to the availability of benomite.  It is the single most prominent mineral on the planetoid the crew calls Midas; all our prior spectrological analyses confirm this.  The issue is, however, one of volume and transport capabilities.  The quantity of benomite required to repress the explosive effect of the Talari weapons sufficiently to create a singularity is beyond the size of any container in Starfleet’s possession.”

 

Even 70,000 light years from the Delta Quadrant, the words _cannot be done_ retained their galvanizing effect on Kathryn Janeway.  Her eyes flashed, and her mind started to race.

“Couldn’t it be done one at a time?  In one hundred and forty-five containers?  Or containers holding, say, five weapons at a time?”

 

Harry shook his head.  “The impact of the dispersal effect would be too great.  Based on Icheb’s projections, the weapons need to be set off and contained _together_ in one single envelope in order to create a singularity of sufficient proportions to do what we need it to.  Proximity of the weapons to each other is critical.”

 

“What the Commander is saying,” Asil reinforced the message, “is that we need one single containment field.  A field the size of which is impossible to achieve, based on the equipment at the Federation’s disposal.”

 

 _Impossible._ Another word not frequently heard in the vocabulary of Voyager’s crew, however logical.  Others around the table refused to accept defeat that easily.

 

“Do the Romulans have anything big enough?  They tend to do things on a grand scale, and they owe the Federation for hiding that planet in the Neutral Zone.”  B’Elanna shot a quick look at her husband.  Janeway shook her head. 

 

“That matter is officially settled, B’Elanna.  Besides, I’m not aware that they have any containers bigger than ours.”

 

“Just how much benomite do we need?  If we don’t have big enough containers, couldn’t we stuff the weapons into, like, an old unused starship?” 

 

Pablo Baytart had never been part of senior officers’ briefings in the Delta Quadrant, but dealt with their fallout often enough to know that _no_ was not an acceptable answer.  He had also learned that most things he had once considered impossible turned out to be … not.  

 

“When we considered _containers,_ Lieutenant Baytart, we included in that category _any_ vessel of _any_ sort that it might be possible for Starfleet to bring into this sector within the time required to save the first affected M-class planet.  I am afraid the minimum requirement would be a contained environment of twice the size of Jupiter Station.”

 

“Aww, crap.” 

 

Baytart’s curse was heartfelt, and despite its mild inappropriateness in the briefing room all it earned was assenting nods, including from a still-distracted Janeway.  Jupiter Station was the largest man-made construct in the Federation; its external hull alone had taken over two decades to build.  But how long could it take to construct a basic container – round or square, no sophisticated instrumentation?  She started playing with her PADD, entering figures.

 

Tom sighed.  “Guess what we really need is something like that sinkhole of an asteroid I buried the Flyer in that time – remember?  _That_ thing came complete with its own benomite mantle, and caves.”

 

His words had barely left his mouth when he stopped, closed it, then opened it again in mute continuation of his initially flippant observation.  Kathryn and Harry both stared at him, then all three of them spoke at once.

 

Harry uttered the single word:  “ _Midas_!”

 

Kathryn focused immediately on the next threshold issue.  “Icheb, is the benomite layer on XT-3476 thick enough to contain an underground explosion?”

 

Tom, having already dismissed the _what_ in his mind and moved on to the _how,_ turned to Asil, Harry and B’Elanna. 

 

“Question for you three geniuses.  What does it take to knock a former rogue planetoid out if its orbit, to give a world-eating anomaly a serious case of heartburn?”

…..

 

As it turned out, even though they were quite capable of carrying out the necessary calculations and modeling potential outcomes, any expectation that Voyager’s crew could actually implement the proposed solution by themselves was rather unrealistic.  Even a team that was used to, as Tom put it, _move Heaven and Earth to get their way_ , had to admit that whatever equipment was needed to dislodge a planetoid from its orbit would not be found on an Intrepid class star ship. 

 

But with the disturbances from the anomaly at a greater distance, and a few additional adjustments to the deflectors, subspace communications had been re-established overnight.  Initial contact with the Daystrom Institute had been promising, and a conference call set up shortly thereafter.

 

Tom had always harboured slight suspicions towards the Institute, which seemed to his mind to be full of people more concerned with theory than useful, practical things – he still hadn’t forgiven them for the six-hour grilling he had been forced to undergo on his knowledge of the Q continuum.  But maybe in this instance theory and practice could, for once, be merged? 

 

He settled back in his chair, happy to allow Kathryn Janeway to take the lead in the discussion.

 

“Orbital adjustment or displacement is an uncommon but still standard procedure, first carried out in the twenty-second century, when an asteroid threatening to collide with Vulcan and was successfully diverted.”

 

Levak, the Vulcan scientist who oversaw the terraforming faculty at the Institute, managed to imbue his clipped recital with an impressive blend of superciliousness and reassurance. 

 

“It is usually performed to adjust a promising planetoid’s orbit, or adjust the oscillation of its rotation axis to one that would provide a more hospitable or stable climate for colonization.  Removing XT-3476 from the gravitational pull of the system altogether would require a similar approach, but should in fact be relatively easier given that it would not require the precision or effective relocation.  Moreover, the planetoid was trapped only recently and has not yet achieved a fully stable orbit.”

 

Kathryn had been listening intently, allowing her scientist background a rare blossoming.

 

“You say ‘relatively easier,’ Professor.  What kind of timeframe are we looking at?  I understand orbital adjustment for terraforming purposes can take a decade or more.” 

 

“We have taken the liberty to make the necessary calculations, Admiral, based on the rather … rudimentary ones provided by Captain Paris’ crew.”

 

Tom suppressed a snide remark.  Academic superiority over practitioners’ work was not something he had a great deal of time for at the best of times -- but this wasn’t the best of times and so he let it go with a Janewayesque glare that was lost on the Vulcan.  Luckily, the latter redeemed himself almost immediately. 

 

“Most of the necessary equipment is presently engaged in a project inside the Tarikoff belt, but their assignment there is almost concluded.  We can have the equipment in place within a year, and operational shortly thereafter.  I understand the part of your crew’s calculations that concerned the path XT-3466 needed to take towards the anomaly upon dislocation, was adequate.  And I am pleased to report that the first suitable orbital window occurs within approximately eighteen standard months.  We will aim for this as our target date, given that the next one occurs twenty-eight point six years later.  It should be feasible.”

 

Tom whistled soundlessly.  What Levak had not said explicitly was clear in the unforgiving numbers: They had one shot to save two civilizations.  _Should_ had to become _must._

 

Levak gave them both a considered look through the comm link, and dropped the superciliousness. 

 

“It may perhaps be inappropriate to state this, Admiral, but certain members of my staff … are in fact eagerly anticipating this opportunity, which they consider to be unique.  You may be assured of the Institute’s complete cooperation.”

 

Kathryn smiled, a little grimly.  “I know how you feel, Professor Levak.  It isn’t every day that we get to move pieces around on a chessboard of quite this scale.  And,” she added softly, “with so many lives at stake.”

 

Tom only half-listened as Levak and Janeway continued an animated – almost, on the side of the Vulcan – exchange about the details of the future operation, and the science behind it.  Except when it came to holo-programming and shuttle design Tom considered himself a ‘big picture’ guy, one who, once he’d thrown an interesting idea on the table, liked to step back and leave the details to others. 

 

As pleased as he was seeing his crew’s ideas put into action, though, Tom was also not exactly keen on spending the next year in the Antarean sector overseeing their implementation.  If the good folks at Daystrom wanted to play, he’d be more than happy to let them have this particular sandbox all to themselves. But he also knew that a few issues remained to be resolved, and decided to move the discussion along. 

 

“And the creation of the singularity?  Have you given this any thought?” 

 

He could barely conceal his relief when Levak nodded.

 

“Yes, indeed we have, Captain.  The resulting observations will prove most enlightening for our astrophysics faculty, and they have already registered their interest in carrying out the necessary work in conjunction with the Vulcan Academy of Science, albeit under the _Institute_ ’s leadership.”

 

The briefest of glimmers appeared in Levak’s eyes at that last statement, and the emphasis was not lost on the two Starfleet officers.  A spot of ancient history and institutional rivalry, perhaps?  Or maybe something more … personal?  Kathryn suppressed a smile as the Vulcan continued.

 

“The Federation Council has tentatively approved the deployment of six Whorfin-class vessels that will be able to move the weapons into place and ensure they have the necessary benomite cover.  We are optimistic that Starfleet can make these vessels available on short order.”

 

 _You bet they will._ The look Kathryn exchanged with Tom said it all.  Nacheyev was next on their list of calls; with their combined forces of persuasion, resistance would be futile.

 

And speaking of resistance, Tom had very little when it came to making his next comment.

 

“Good to hear.  And from what I understand, there’s already been considerable mining activity on XT-3476 that should help you find an appropriate underground location to bury the stuff.  They even have the right digging equipment in place, all ready to go.”

 

Levak’ eyebrows shot up. 

 

“That is welcome news indeed, Captain, and should be of great assistance in meeting the necessary timelines.”

 

Kathryn’s lips twitched in amusement after they signed off. 

 

“Have you mentioned to the Ferengi that you’re offering their kit to Starfleet for its use, and so it can get exploded and sent into subspace with Midas?  They may have a word to say about that.”

 

Tom shrugged. 

 

“Do we care?  Or more precisely, do we _need_ to care?  That’s your field, I guess.”

 

She sighed.  “Unfortunately, I think we do need to care, Tom.  The Federation has been trying to come to some kind of grip with the Ferengi Alliance for almost two decades now.  Their neutrality in the Dominion War was not unhelpful – it could have been worse, if they had allied with the Founders and the Cardassians – but it would have been _more_ helpful if they had sided with the Federation.”

 

“In other words, we still don’t like them but we can’t afford to piss them off, is that what you’re saying?”

 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Tom.”

 

He pulled a face, but wasn’t ready to give up quite that easily. 

 

“But from what I understand, most of the Ferengi running scams outside their own territory are private … what’s the word?  _Entrepreneurs_.  They have diddly-squat to do with the Alliance itself, if only to avoid paying taxes to the Grand Nagus.  This guy, Daimon Kol, by all indications is working with the Orion Syndicate.  Last time I looked, the Alliance wasn’t.  And I _did_ look.  When I did my homework reading in the Snowflakes, private enterprise is all I saw.  Individual Ferengi traders, out to make a buck with the Orions, well outside the Alliance’s sensor range.  If Kol claims he’s with the Ferengi Commerce Authority, he’s lying right through his crooked teeth.”

 

Kathryn considered him carefully.  Tom’s last assumption was checked easily enough; the Federation did invest considerable resources to keep track of appointed officials in all the worlds it had dealings with.  She walked over to the terminal on his desk and entered a few fluid strokes, feeling a faint tingle at the familiarity of the console under her fingers.  Tom watched her with some amusement but said nothing.

 

“Hmpf,” she said, after a minute or so. 

 

Tom briefly considered whether it would be appropriate to gloat – if only just a little -- but her next words put a quick end to any such impulse.

 

“Well, _Captain_ , since you appear to be correct and he is in fact _not_ a representative of the Ferengi authorities, it would be entirely appropriate if you, rather than me, be the one to advise him of our plans.  Plausible deniability, you understand.”

 

She grinned, just a little maliciously, as she watched the dismay spread over her former helmsman’s handsome features. 

 

“Hmpf,” he said.

 

…..

 

Daimon Kol, needless to say, was less than pleased to hear of Starfleet’s plans for his operation and equipment.  Tom made it equally clear that he didn’t care.

 

“You see, Kol, the thing _is_ ,” he said, “the people who told you that you could do what you did didn’t actually have any right to tell you that.  And now the people that _do_ have that right, they’re pretty pissed off with you and they want back what’s rightfully theirs.  Not only that, but they’ll take it.  Starting _now_.”

 

Janeway cleared her throat just a little; the discussion with Karon and Naldar about seizing Ferengi assets and using them to turn Midas into a weapons cache first, and a singularity thereafter, had not yet actually taken place.  She had no expectations that either delegation would refuse, but technically Tom was about three steps ahead of where she hoped to get to by the end of the day.

 

“Idle threats,” Kol sputtered.  “Unacceptable.  We have made considerable investments that will …”

 

Unimpressed, Tom cut him off.

 

“Are you familiar with the concept of _nationalization?_  Look it up, cause that’s what’s happening to you.  But really, you don’t need to bother because as I think you know, they have some pretty big guns to make their point with.”

 

He dropped the disingenuous approach like a cloak.

 

“And they’re willing to use those guns, if you don’t clear out your people by the end of the next rotation.  In fact, I have one of those things in my shuttle bay, and the person who best knows how to use them is in guest quarters on my ship.  Her boss is the Supreme Leader of Talar and he happens to be here too, ready to give the order.  Co-signed by the President of Denaros, in case you’re thinking you can deploy your Orion friends to deepen the divisions between the Binary worlds some more.  So I’d suggest that take your shuttles, load ‘em up with all the dilithium you can carry, leave the diggers behind, and call it a win.  Or a draw.  I really don’t care.  Our …”

 

He looked for the right word for a moment, one that the Ferengi would understand.  “Our Denarian andTalari _clients_ will accept the diggers as payment for what you have already taken, and refrain from launching a complaint with the Grand Nagus.  Who, I am certain, would be only too happy to hear of your activities, and demand his fair share of your past profits.  I hear he is pretty generous to himself.”

 

Tom gave the man a conspiratorial smile that belied his previous grim demeanour.

 

“But you see, if you leave quietly, we may just forget to comm Grand Nagus Rom.  We’re not unreasonable, you will agree.”

 

It quickly became clear that the mention of the Grand Nagus, and the risk of losing his past profits, affected Kol rather more deeply than any threats to his personal safety implied – or express – Tom could have made.  The situation would have been almost comical but for Tom’s acute awareness of the havoc that the man’s hunger for profit had wrought on innocent lives, including on the crew of the Gettysburg.  He allowed his voice to turn cold again. 

 

“One final comment, Kol.  If you _ever_ dare show your face in Federation space, be aware that I will personally hunt you down for your role, direct or indirect, in the deaths of three hundred and three Starfleet personnel on the USS Gettysburg and three on this ship.  And I will do everything in my power to ensure that you will never set foot on Ferenginor again.  Is that understood?”

 

The Ferengi glared at Tom through the vid link, gritted his teeth and reached for the disconnect, trying to preserve his dignity by snarling something that sounded like ‘ _empty threats, hu-mon’_ as he did so.

 

Behind him in the shadows, a figure rose and moved out of the screen just as it turned black.

 

Tom turned to Janeway, who had been watching the exchange from a far corner of his ready room, a half-grin on his face. 

 

“So, how’d I do?  Do I have a future as a diplomat?  I hope not.”

 

She shook her head. 

 

“You did fine, Tom, apart from that little spot of … improvisation about what Karon and Naldar haven’t actually agreed to yet.  I’m surprised with all your love of early Earth history, you’re not familiar with where the cart goes, in relation to the horse.” 

 

She shrugged. 

 

“But I suppose you’re right; they don’t really have a choice but to back you up if anyone asks.  Just remember though, dealing with the Ferengi is like playing … what was it you called that carnival game you set up for Naomi Wildman when she was little?  Whack-a-mole?  You hit one on the head and send him back in his hole, and another one pops up somewhere else, doing similar things?  It’s like that.  They never really go away.”

 

Tom smiled briefly at her use of the image, but sobered as the small feeling of triumph he had indulged in for a moment begun to fade under the sheer weight of the reality that remained. 

 

“You’re right.  In a society based on individuals making as much money as they can get away with, the whole idea of central control or oversight is a joke.  Guess we should count ourselves lucky if we manage to whack this one down.”

 

He shook his head.  No one in the Ferengi Alliance would care one iota about pre-empting future endeavours, as long as there was a cut to be had and the body count did not include themselves. 

 

“Well, at least we know he won’t be asking the so-called Ferengi fleet for help, and if he does, there’s probably no one home to answer the comm because they know they won’t get paid.“

 

His former Captain laid a hand on his arm, the pressure of her fingers forcing Tom to look her in the eye.

 

“You’re right,” Kathryn said, he voice low but urgent.  “The Ferengi are likely not going to be a problem, and there’s not going to be any official fall-out from the confiscation of Kol’s equipment and machinery that you just announced.  But what about the man who was with him?”

 

Tom looked at her, a frown creasing his face.  “You mean the guy in the background?  What about him?”

 

Kathryn’s eyes narrowed.  Being deliberately obtuse or disingenuous was a technique Tom Paris had successfully deployed in the past, but she wouldn’t let him get away with it this time.  She couldn’t afford to, and neither could B’Elanna … or Miral.

 

“Computer, replay the last few seconds of the comm exchange with Daimon Kol.” 

 

The computer complied without comment, and Kol’s bulbous head filled the frame.  A figure was visible in the ill-lit background just over the Ferengi’s left shoulder.

 

“Now focus on the background.  Adjust contrast, increase background lighting by fifty percent, and freeze.”

 

The enhanced image showed a Rigellian, a prominent scowl visible on his naturally hard and angular features as he glared with withering contempt at the back of Kol’s head.

 

“I assume this is one of the Syndicate members,” Janeway said softly, her eyes not fixed on the Rigellian but on Tom’s face. 

 

“Stands to reason,” Tom replied, rather too carelessly for her liking.  “It seems they have a rather solid Rigellian membership.  And I bet if he didn’t need Kol’s ships to get him off this rock, Kol wouldn’t last very long.  The Orions…”

 

“… don’t take kindly to failure, I know.  You told Kol that the last time, Tom.  What concerns me, though, is that they _also_ don’t take kindly to interference.  And that’s twice now you’ve played a major role in terminating one of their … ventures.”

 

She grabbed him by the arm, forcing him to turn towards her.  Finally, she was able to capture his eyes with hers, and when she spoke, it was softly.  Very softly, in the way that she knew would cut him far deeper than any stern lecture.

 

“They _will_ know you did this, Tom.  That it was you who interfered in their operation.” 

 

Her hand stayed on his arm, her eyes completing the words:  _And I let you, because I couldn’t endanger the negotiations by doing it myself._

He stared at her, defiantly. 

 

“And what about you?”

 

She shook her head, her lips pursed. 

 

“The Syndicate knows better than to go for the high-profile targets.  People like me, they try and buy.  Effective operators like you, they remove from the picture.”

 

Tom sighed, surrendering.

 

“Yeah.  Yeah, I guess you’re right.  But if we’re lucky, they’ll be sufficiently pissed off to crawl out of the shadows so Starfleet can go after them once and for all.” 

 

She knew it was all the concession she would get from him for now, but felt she should add something nonetheless.

 

“I suppose until that happens, Starfleet will have to keep you in space for a while, to make sure you’re safe.”

 

Tom stared at her in disbelief.  Boothby’s rather similar and rather prophetic words from now long ago notwithstanding, all he heard – all he was able to hear right now – was two words:  _Space.  Safe._

He repeated them out loud, for her benefit, his eyebrows raised in a question mark. 

 

His laughter started as a sharp cackle, eventually turning into a guffaw.  It did not take very long for Kathryn to join in, despite her far better judgment. __

…..

 

How many rounds of negotiations had it been, up to this point?  Kathryn had lost count, but she also knew that this would be the one that would matter.  She waited for her features to settle into an approximation of what Admiral Janeway should be, took a deep breath, and entered the holodeck.

 

Naldar and Karon were present, accompanied by Talith and Karon’s civilian assistant, as before.  One day she would remember that man’s name, she swore to herself.  Judging by their facial expressions, little appeared to have changed since the last session – except, of course, everything. 

 

Not a bad place to start.

 

“Gentlemen.” She fixed the two leaders in turn with a grey-eyed stare. 

 

“We have a solution.  A solution that, if our calculations are correct, will force the anomaly back into subspace.  It will also remove from the Antarean sector the one thing that ignited the conflict between Denaros and Talar.”

 

_The one thing you both want, more than anything._

 

She had their attention, and she knew better this time than to get into scientific details.  They would not care.

 

“Let me explain …”

 

As expected, the majority of the discussions – which were needlessly heated, even in the absence of an audience that could have celebrated the respective protagonists’ defence of their people’s purported interest -- centered around the possibility of exploiting some of its riches, while it was being prepared for orbital adjustment.  And the matter of division of the ephemeral wealth.  After over an hour of pointless wrangling, Kathryn snapped.

 

“Gentlemen, what you fail to understand is that what excavations will be carried out on Midas from now on will be limited to burying explosives, and moving benomite to covering them up.  _There will be no time for commercial activity._ ”

 

 

Faced with the inevitable, Naldar leaned back in his seat and stared at Karon, long and hard.

 

“Peace,” he finally said.

 

“Peace,” Karon replied.

 

Neither man made an effort to conceal his distaste as they touched their respective shoulders with their right hand, the traditional gesture of commitment and respect.  Talith and her Denari civilian opposite number held themselves perfectly still, bearing witness.

 

Kathryn took a deep breath, considering what words might be appropriate to this occasion.  Carefully, weighing each one, she spoke.

 

“This is a historic occasion.  I congratulate you both for an agreement that will ensure the continued survival of both Denaros and Talar, and their colonies.  On behalf of the Federation, I …”

 

Tom’ frowned, and looked around the table.  _That was it?  Surely not …_

 

“But, Admiral. What about …”

 

Kathryn raised her hand at the interruption.  She glared at him now, willing him to silence. 

 

_Not now, Tom._

 

Clenching his jaw, his eyes hard as he held hers, Tom inclined his head. 

 

_Your mission, Admiral._

 

He rose, turned on his heel and left the room, feeling Talith’s eyes bore into his back as he went.

 

____________________________________________________

 

NOTE:  “ _Combat_ ” is the fencing equivalent to “Game, set and match” in tennis.  It’s what the judge announces when a match is over, whether it is because the necessary number of hits has been scored or time has run out, before he affects a bored expression and heads over to the scoring table to initial the results sheet and make it official. 

 

This is the moment when, if the stakes were sufficiently high, the victorious fencer rips off his or her mask in triumph and lets out a blood-curdling scream.  (Adrenaline is the world’s best way to rid oneself of inhibitions in this regard.)  The loser, on the other hand -- depending on their degree of sportsmanship and self-control -- may just stand there for a moment to digest the end of a dream, or else throw their mask on the floor and stomp off in disgust. 

 

Not everything is settled with the end of a match, of course.  At the very least, the winner retires to a quiet corner to prepare for the next round, which will inevitably be even tougher.

 

 

And since the Olympics are on now and all the fencing events are happening this week – a very, very personal note:  SHERRAINE – YOU GO, GRRRL!!!

 


	14. Salut

Kathryn Janeway swished the coffee (Hawaiian Kona, black) around in her mouth, trying to find the taste she had been dreaming about for seven long years.  Her eyes narrowed as she replayed the events of the day and tried to repeat a single phrase to herself:  _Mission accomplished._

Unfortunately, if there was one thing she loathed even more than the taste of cold, stale coffee, it was the cold, stale taste of willful self-deception. 

 

What was she missing, that a handshake between Naldar and Karon could not guarantee, now that the Syndicate was no longer in a position to stir up a renewed conflict?

 

The memory of Tom Paris’ retreating back bothered her more than she would have thought possible.  What had she told him, when she dragged him from the comfort of his bridge to Denaros and Talar, to accompany her to the first round of negotiations? That she wanted an adviser.  Someone with Tom’s ability to ‘ _cut through layers of obfuscation and see to the core of an issue_.’ 

 

Her own words.

 

Then why hadn’t she asked his opinion, before going into the final round?  Was it because not-so-deep down she still considered him her impetuous helmsman, whose acerbic view of the world found release in a wisecrack far more often than it resulted in considered, actionable advice, and who could be quelled with a single glare for either? 

 

Or had it been to spare herself … unnecessary complications, in case he had something to say that was as substantive as it was inconvenient?

 

She had been so absolutely sure of what she had wanted to get out of the discussion with Karon and Naldar:  Agreement from both Talar and Denaros to relinquish their claim on Midas, that cosmic cornucopia whose promise of untold riches had frozen Denaros and Talar in a conflict so vicious that it had consumed everything it touched. 

 

But would its mere disappearance guarantee a lasting peace, for a generation raised in war?

 

What was it Tom would have said, after that challenging “ _what about_ …”?

 

She had no doubt that she had been absolutely correct to cut him off when she did; it would not do to show a division of opinion between herself and the ostensible host of the negotiations, with both of them wearing Starfleet uniforms.  Points of disagreement should always be settled, and the final arguments fine-tuned, _before_ the resulting consensus was brought to the table for third parties to attack. 

 

_Diplomacy 101:  The United Front._

_And you, Kathryn Janeway, just failed.  Because you can’t unite a front until you know where the lines are.  And you didn’t even bother to ask the man knows some of the players as well, or in one case better, than you do, and whose advice you claimed to value._

 

Just a few short days ago, Tom had been almost ready to abdicate his role as Captain to her.  How ready was she to let him play it?

 

She stared at the coffee cup.  Its contents weren’t getting any hotter, and were unlikely to get any less stale.  With a determined ‘clank’, she sat the cup down on her desk and looked to the ceiling.  Time to own up.

 

“Computer, locate Captain Paris.”

 

“Captain Paris is in his quarters.”

 

 _Of course._ Normal people – people who consumed sold food instead of quantities of caffeine, in defiance of their physician’s express and repeated advice -- would be having dinner now.  And Tom and B’Elanna, she knew,always made a point of doing so with Miral.  And, for the time being, with little Andrée Gallagher, whose older half-brother, an ensign, was now _en route_ to the Antarean sector onboard the USS Spock, a science vessel dispatched to bring the Gettysburg survivors back to Earth.

 

She tapped her comm badge.

 

“Janeway to Paris.”

 

“Yes, Admiral, what can I do for you?”

 

Tom seemed to have taken his time in responding – and was that a slight note of … exasperation in his voice?  She had almost heard the ' _now'_ at the end of his response to her hail, suggesting that maybe it came several hours late.  No matter.

 

“I have something I’d like to discuss with you.  I hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.  Can you come meet me in my quarters?”

 

…..

 

Tom looked across the table to B’Elanna, and shrugged. He eyed the half-eaten slice of pizza on his plate regretfully and sighed.  One way to keep his weight down …

 

He gave his response to the ceiling, where he’d always told Miral the computer’s invisible ears were located.

 

“That’s fine.  I’ll be there in a minute.  Eating is overrated anyway.”

 

Tom turned to Miral and Andrée, but included B’Elanna in his words. 

 

“Sorry girls, I know I haven’t been around much the last couple of days, but duty calls.  I’ll try and be back in time for a story, okay?”

 

They nodded solemnly. 

 

“Ratty, Moley and Toad?”  Andrée asked, hopefully.  Quiet and withdrawn, the little girl had quickly taken to story time at the end of the day.  After she got over her amazement at the pile of paper books that littered the Paris-Torres quarters, she had quickly familiarized herself with the contents of Miral’s library.  Tom smiled at her, and ruffled her hair affectionately.

 

“Yeah, you got it, sweetheart.  Your turn to pick, if I’m right.  So Rattey, Moley and Toad it is.” 

 

Listening to the soft rush of the wind in the willows, or messing around in boats, would be rather more his speed right now than a session with the Federation envoy, Tom mused regretfully as he rose from the table.  Oh well. 

 

He kissed both girls on the head and smiled at B’Elanna, as she wordlessly wrapped his abandoned pizza slice in a napkin and handed it to him to eat on his way.  The thought occurred to him, as he headed towards the turbolift, chewing, that if anyone had told him and B’Elanna just a few years ago that they would ever end up this domesticated, he would have invited the person to the nearest cargo bay in search of his sanity.  And his loving wife would have gleefully thrown a hyper spanner after the offender as he went out the open airlock. 

 

How long had it been since his ambitions were best summed up as, “Gotta have that car!” …

 

_Beep, beep. ****_

 

…..

 

“Come in, Tom.”

 

He heard the voice the moment he touched the panel, almost as if she had sensed him coming.  _Probably felt the vibrations of my step, now that the warp engines are silent._  Tom hesitated briefly, wondering how he should approach the meeting.  He had walked out on her, kind of – and not for the first time in their lives, either -- but essentially had done so in response at her dismissal.  Did that mean he owed her an apology?

 

He decided not.  _Just play it cool, Paris, see what she wants …_

 

The sight that greeted him when he entered the well-appointed guest suite provided him with both reassurance and a flash of an old, almost forgotten memory:  Kathryn Janeway, pouring two glasses of what looked remarkably like Saurian brandy.

 

She tried to hand him a glass, but he waved her off to deposit the remains of his dinner in the recycler.  He wiped his hand off on his pants before taking the glass, an unselfconscious gesture that made her smile.  Some things never changed, and Tom Paris would never entirely grow up.

 

“It’s not real, I’m afraid,” she said.  “I don’t have your or Chakotay’s talent for procurement when it comes to alcohol.”

 

“I’m sure it’ll do,” he said, his voice carrying a question mark. 

 

_Do for what?_

 

She came straight to the point. 

 

“You wanted to ask something of the delegations on the holodeck, earlier.  I couldn’t let you do that then, not without risking the progress we had made.  I’m sorry.  What was it you had in mind?”

 

Tom held still, staring at the contents of his glass in silent wonderment. 

 

 _Kathryn Janeway said she was sorry?  To_ him _?  Let the trumpets blow and the drums ring out -- mark the day and sing out loud!_

 

He gave a self-conscious laugh as the inappropriateness of his reaction struck him rather forcefully.  This was serious stuff.  He gave a quick swig of his quasi-brandy and instinctively wrinkled his nose at its less-than-stellar quality, but now was not the time to be a snob. 

 

“Well, it’s probably stupid and you’re the expert here.  But I can’t help but wonder -- shouldn’t there be at least a little bit of a discussion as to what happens next between these guys?  You’ve basically won the war for them.  Who’s gonna be responsible for running the peace?”

 

Kathryn gave him a thoughtful look.  Was that all?

 

“These are advanced civilizations, Tom, with sophisticated forms of governance.  Their leadership is firmly behind the peace agreement, and they will work side by side with the Federation to ensure that the operation to collapse the anomaly will be a success.  After you left, Karon even offered to use Denarian ships to help transport the weapons to Midas.”

 

Tom snorted contemptuously. 

 

“I bet Talith just _loved_ that one – giving the Denarians a map to where her arsenal is stored is probably at the top of her to-do list.  And I suppose Karon forgot that at the speed his ships are capable of, it’ll take several weeks for a single trip to Midas, from wherever they are in the binary system?  Perfect opportunities for diversion of a few units on the return trip, once they’ve got them in their cargo hold.”

 

Kathryn smiled more than she frowned at this easy dismissal.  Tom had always been one of the more paranoid among her officers, almost as bad as Tuvok and quite possibly ahead of Chakotay.  With a year of advanced strategic and tactical training under his belt, that paranoia had apparently been honed to a scalpel point.

 

“Well, what I took away from that offer, was the Denarians’ willingness to cooperate in the resolution to everyone’s problems.  And that’s worth a lot.”

 

“Maybe.  But how able are Karon and Naldar to keep their own people in check when it’s all over?”

 

Kathryn frowned. 

 

“Once the situation with the anomaly becomes public knowledge, and the source of the fighting is gone, both Denarians and Talari will have nothing left to fight about.  Peace is in everyone’s interest.  I’m certain everyone will understand that.”

 

“Farqoth and his buddies didn’t think peace was such a great idea.”

 

“Tom, we both know that Farqoth is a fanatic, who …”

 

Tom shook his head in the affirmative.

 

“Yeah, I know what he is.  But how do we know that there will be no more _Children of Talaros_?  If there’s anything I learned from reading all that history stuff people always make fun of me for, it’s that people don’t remember who got what chunk of planet, or what pile of dilithium, after a war is done.  But they _do_ remember what was done to their loved ones, their friends, and their families.”

 

He took a deep breath, his voice dropping to a near whisper. 

 

“On Talar, they’ll remember Talaros, and the stories of the survivors, or of the soldiers who found them.  And on Denaros, they just have to _look_ at Kyven.  _Someone_ will find a way of making a new war out of that -- especially the kids, growing up in those refugee camps.  A few soccer balls aren't going to make them forget what happened to them, if they don't see some justice done.  Not to mention the fact that there are people _in Government_ on both sides who seem to be willing to keep the killing going, whether it’s for revenge or for profit.  Sooner or later, there’s going to be a blow-out, peace deal or not.”

 

Kathryn swirled her drink around in her glass.  He had a point.  Both Karon and Naldar had meticulously avoided the revelations of the previous day in their discussions, even as their respective colleagues were under detention for their respective roles.  She had called him into her quarters; she might as well hear him out. __

“So, assuming you’re right.  What do you think needs be done to … to let off the pressure?”

 

Tom blinked back his surprise.  He had interpreted Kathryn’s silence during his rather lengthy rant as due to his failure to get his point across.  As usual, he had underestimated her.  He gripped his glass with both hands and leaned forward.

 

"You see, I’ve been thinking.”

 

He waved off an imaginary protest that didn’t come.

 

“Yes, I know I shouldn’t do that, or so Harry and B’Elanna keep telling me.  Can be dangerous.  But I _have_ been.  Before we left for this mission, I had a chat with Boothby.  He's always got something interesting to say and so I asked him how you end a war.  And what he said was, _'The truth is always a good place to start_.'”

 

Kathryn’s mouth formed the single silent word: ‘ _Boothby?’_ Then she added, her voice just a little menacing, “What does Boothby have to do with all this?  You didn’t tell him where we were going by any chance, did you?  That would be a pretty serious security breach, Captain Paris.”

 

She shook her head.  Taking a gardener’s advice on matters of interplanetary diplomacy might be good enough for Tom Paris, but …

_And for Jean-Luc Picard, now that she thought about it.  And, rumour had it, Alynna Nacheyev, on occasion went to see Boothby on some pretext or other before a major decision.  Not to mention the high regard in which Species 8472seemed to hold the man_ …

 

Tom waved her off even as Kathryn straightened to listen. 

 

“No worries.  I just asked him a general question.  Anyway, I think he's right.  There are so many stories in this war that have nothing to do with Karon, or Naldar, or Midas.  If the truth doesn't come out, all you get is people telling each other what they think they already know, or what they want to hear.  Like me, when I first saw pictures of Kyven.  I wanted to throttle whoever did that.  Now …” __

He paused briefly.  His voice turned to a whisper. 

 

“Now, when I think of Talith, all that comes to my mind is, _There But For The Grace Of God Go I.”_

 

Momentarily sidetracked, Kathryn protested.  “You would have ignored Naldar’s order and gotten yourself court-martialed, rather than drop those bombs.”

 

“I think you give me too much credit.  I remember how I felt killing all those Kazon when they had taken Voyager.  It felt … _good._ And if anyone had done to Miral what Qorath’s men did to Talith’s little girl …” 

 

He let the thought trail off and took a sip of his drink, to drown the sudden taste of ashes in his mouth.

 

“Anyway.  The point is, when you hear the whole story, when you hear _everybody's_ story, not just the leader’s version, it gets a lot harder to keep the hatred going.  And I think that’s what they need in order to really end this.  A trial, or some kind of hearing to bring out the truth.  They had those on Earth at the end of the 20 th century, if I remember right, for some genocide or other.  Kahless knows Qorath and the guys in our brig have it coming, and there are victims of theirs that would want to speak. _Need_ to speak, to be heard, and be able to look them in the eye while they’re doing it."

 

“And Talith?  Naldar?  Karon?  Where would it stop?” 

 

She spoke softly, looking at him intently, watching as he opened his mouth and closed it again.

 

“I don’t know.  Frankly I haven’t thought that far.  But you don’t disagree with me, do you?”

 

 “No, I’m afraid I don’t.  But deliberate remembrance … also makes things rather complicated, when most peoples’ instinct is just to want to forget and get on with things.”

 

“That’s not what you said when we found that monument in the Delta Quadrant.  Bloody thing still gives me nightmares, but keeping it was the right thing to do.  I know that now.”

 

She smiled at him, a little ruefully.

 

"I knew you'd throw that one back at me sooner or later, although I didn't think it would be quite like this.  But you're right.  Besides, far be it from me to dismiss something Boothby has said.  The man practically _runs_ Starfleet."

 

Tom chuckled.  “We could do worse.”

 

Then he sobered again.

 

“I’m sure Karon would happily throw Qorath to the wolves, if you made the suggestion,” Tom offered.  “Put him in handcuffs and charge him with treason, then add war crimes as a bonus.  Good place to start getting some truths out there.”

 

Kathryn fixed her former helmsman with her grey-eyed stare. 

 

“Let me think about it, Tom.  I’m not saying you’re wrong, but in order for me to put something like that to the delegations …” 

 

She stopped in mid-sentence and frowned a little as she started to think.  Tom poured her another drink, which she gratefully accepted. 

 

“Speaking of Qorath -- you hear the guy trashed his quarters today?”

 

“ _Qorath_?”  She gladly left her thoughts behind for now; some ideas did better when they were allowed to simmer in her subconscious for a while.  Tom really did know her rather well …

 

“The very same.  Apparently he’s unhappy with his confinement, and decided to make his displeasure known.”

 

Kathryn was intrigued, as much by the idea of a Supreme Marshall acting like holovid star with anger management issues, as she was by Tom’s deceptively disingenuous effort at changing the topic. 

 

“Really?  So what did you do?”

 

Tom shrugged. 

 

“Nothing.  Mike let him go ahead, do what he set out to do.  No point risking anyone getting injured, besides he only had his hands and feet.  But now he sits in a pile of debris.  Some, I gather, with sharp corners.”

 

She looked at Tom with wide eyes that started to twinkle in appreciation. 

 

“You didn’t clean up the mess?”

 

“Nah.  Where’s the lesson in that?”  An impish grin crossed his face. 

 

“Mike disengaged the recycler, too, so he can’t throw any of it out without saying ‘pretty please’.  Good man, Ayala.”

 

And that was it.  Kathryn Janeway threw back her head and let out a throaty laugh.

 

…..

 

 

Tom had promised to stay quiet during this, the hopefully last meeting of the Denarian and Talari leaders onboard Voyager before shuttles would be dispatched to return them to their respective home worlds to face their respective peoples.

 

It wasn’t easy, this staying quiet, when all he could read behind Karon’s pale green and Naldar’s silver eyes, respectively, was calculation and assessment -- of the costs and benefits of Janeway’s proposal for Truth and Reconciliation hearings for them, personally. 

 

Karon’s ledger came up in the black quickly.  Tom had been right:  Getting rid of Qorath, whom the President evidently regarded as a barbarian thug -- however necessary and useful he might have been at one point -- was a welcome opportunity.  

 

For Karon, being able to do a spot of housecleaning among the senior military cadre – only those suspected of dealing with the Ferengi, of course! – had to be seen as a bonus.  The image of a President betrayed by his forces, just as he was striving to bring peace to his people, would easily overshadow that of the fool who had ignored the enemy’s desperate overtures.  And if his shortsightedness had caused Denaros a catastrophic loss, well, at least he wasn’t the one who had dropped the Scourge.

 

And thus -- in the name of a lasting peace, of course -- Denaros was onboard, even insisted that the to-be-constituted Commission would have the power to recommend criminal charges, where warranted.  Karon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest, staring a smug challenge at the Talari leader.

 

Naldar was a different story.  Anything that would touch on deployment of the scourge, would “stir anti-Talari feelings within the Denarian population.”  Even putting Farqoth or Alqil on trial would, in the Supreme Talon’s view, “awaken demons best left sleeping.” 

 

In Tom’s mind, those noble sentiments were just shorthand for “… might remind people that I ordered the scouring of Kyven.” 

 

Enlightened self-interest at its finest.  He remembered very clearly Neelix’ reaction to Jetrel, the curious, well-meaning scientist who had developed the Metreon cascade that had destroyed the Talaxian’s home planet: intentions, when measured against consequences, would never be more than a footnote to those affected, especially when those intentions were misconceived to begin with. 

 

Naldar, as Tom had previously determined, was many things – but a fool, never.  He would know this.  And would not allow himself to be judged.

 

Kathryn looked over at Tom, regret in her eyes.  It had not taken her long to see the justice in how he had interpreted Boothby’s comment, and she had spent the night considering how to put it into practice:  A Commission, whose goals would be truth and reconciliation, run by the Federation and some of its independent allies, in a neutral location.

 

But with only one side willing to commit to the idea of opening some of the war’s darkest corners to the light, there would be no point in pushing the idea further.

 

“I would go.”

 

The voice was cool and firm, and when Tom thought about it later, should not have come as a surprise.

 

The response was two-fold, and immediate.

 

“ _Excuse me_?”  Naldar, pale eyes flashing in ill-concealed, surprised anger.

 

“Marshall?”

 

Kathryn raised her hand to stop Naldar from saying anything else, for now.  She turned to Talith, her raised eyebrows a question mark.  The latter did not blink, but it was to Naldar that she addressed her response.

 

“The envoy is right; the truth must be told if there is to be peace among our peoples.  But you cannot send only Denarians to be judged on what they did, or have only their victims testify as to their suffering.  I will go and speak for Talar.  And for the dead of Talaros.  There must be balance.  The Denarians will need to hear how and why their people died, just as we need to see Qorath answer for his crimes.”

 

She turned to Naldar, and looked him straight in the eyes, ignoring Karon’s confused expression. 

 

“And I will take Alqil with me.  His presence will show that corruption and self-interest exist not only on the world of our enemies, and that it must be stamped out on both sides, if there is to be peace.”

 

Naldar opened his mouth in protest, but she waved him off, just as Kathryn had done a moment earlier.  Tom was almost beginning to feel sorry for the man.  Almost.

 

“I don’t know anymore what is right, and what is wrong, Talon.  I used to, and when I didn’t, I relied on you to tell me.  But I believe all of Talar lost its way a long time ago; there were good reasons, too many challenges, and too many things to be done _now_ to reflect on whether we were right.  How can we expect our people to avoid making the same mistakes?”

 

“It is not your decision to make, Marshall,” Naldar grated, his usual superciliousness wiped away by a reflexive anger at having been countermanded by someone he thought he controlled. 

 

“Hold your counsel.”

 

Tom and Kathryn exchanged an instinctive glance, neither of them blinking as they read each other’s thoughts.  This particular dynamic was not … unfamiliar to them, in the nearly ten years of their acquaintance; Tom responded to Kathryn’s budding glare with just the tiniest of gleams before she turned her attention to the neglected Denarians. __

Karon’s features, in turn, were a study in animated confusion.  Not that he marveled at the spectacle of a military commander trying to take on the leader of her world – clearly that was a concept he was rather intimately familiar with, and had just found a way to turn into a winning formula.  No, it was clear to Kathryn that the Denarian was wondering which way he should weight his support, if at all:  Testimony by Talith, in whichever forum, would doubtless throw the spotlight on his own role in refusing Talari overtures before the attack on Kyven.  Layers upon layers of considerations and fears – was it better to bury them, or to expose them to the cold light of day?

 

The thoughts were racing across the Denarian’s at warp speed, but if there was one thing Kathryn saw with crystalline clarity, it was that she could not permit Karon to speak whichever way he decided to fall off the fence -- nor could she permit a standoff between Talith and Naldar at this delicate stage.  She cleared her throat, and waited until all eyes were upon her.

 

“Thank you, Marshall.  Your offer to make yourself available to a Commission that will permit the people of Denaros and Talar to understand the nature of the conflict we are all seeking to end, and to find a path to the future, is most generous.”

 

She brushed aside Naldar’s attempt to speak with a determined stare, one that any of her senior officers would have recognized as the patented ‘Janeway glare’.

 

“Supreme Talon, President, we are at the critical point in our discussions.  We have secured both parties’ agreement to an end to the conflict, and to cooperation with Federation terraformers for the end to the threat to both systems from the Antarean subspace anomaly.  I believe we also have a unique opportunity to secure a lasting peace, by allowing both your peoples to understand what they have just come through, what the driving forces were, and how they must remain vigilant against the long-term dangers presented by ignorance, hatred, and manipulation by third parties.”

 

Kathryn took a deep breath, and fixed each of the delegates with a penetrating stare of only slightly lesser intensity.

 

“No one can ensure peace, and there will always be fanatics like Farqoth, or opportunists like Qorath.  But we can reduce the probabilities by reducing the soil  in which their ambitions can take root.  And this, I have come to believe, can only be achieved if President Karon has generously offered to make the Denarian perpetrators of serious crimes available for public scrutiny, and I have no doubt that Supreme Talon Naldar shares in this vision.”

 

Tom sat back in his chair, arms crossed in front of his chest.  He noted the way in which Kathryn had not even stumbled the slightest over that last bit, but had made it come out all fluid and … well, with _utmost_ sincerity.  If that was what it meant to be a diplomat -- getting powerful people to do things they didn’t want by flattering them into submission, until they believed it was _their_ brilliance and foresight that had won the day – well, he wanted no part of it.

 

Tom had been raised in a house where politics and Macchiavellian machinations of inter-planetary reach were regularly the subject of dinner table discussions.  Quiet conversation between his parents, private meetings of high-ranking officials in his father’s study, indiscreet chats by guests over a glass or three on the porch; he had listened to them all, surreptitiously -- precisely because he’d been told to make himself scarce. 

 

But because his father had been at the centre of those discussions, and because his father had wanted him to follow in his footsteps, Tom had turned away from that world – becoming the flyboy, the holovid junkie and the garage tinkerer.  Games should be for fun, he had decided early on, not how you decided matters of life and death.  And hypocrisy refined to an art form was something best left to the pros.

 

The woman before him was definitely a pro; she had proven that with that Devorian chap of regrettable memory.  Luckily, she was using her powers for Good rather than Evil, and so Tom decided to sit back and admire, rather than despise, her technique.

 

In the end, Naldar bowed to the inevitable.  Maybe it had been the thought of being one-upped by his Denarian rival, or maybe it was whatever Talith whispered into his ear; he stood, ramrod still, the image of seething resentment.  But it didn’t really matter just how ungracefully his hand did touch his shoulder in the traditional gesture of acceptance. 

 

What mattered was that it did, for the second time in a day.

 

…..

 

“You know, I’ll never understand it.”

 

“Understand what?”  Kathryn gave Tom a level look as they crossed the bridge and entered the Captain’s ready room side by side.

 

“How some people can look at politics or interplanetary economics as a game.  Something that’s about _them,_ where there are winners and losers and if they make a mistake, it’s _them_ that have a problem.  When it’s really about ordinary people whose hopes and livelihoods they’re moving around like in some giant board game.  Or in the case of a conflict, they count their little victories like hits in a fencing match, parrying and riposting, feinting and disengaging, instead of measuring what they’re doing in lives and futures lost.”

 

Kathryn remained silent for a moment before responding.

 

“Power is an interesting thing, Tom.  It leads people to see things through a completely different lens.  Some have called it an aphrodisiac – the enjoyment of it can get really, really personal.  Remember the Kazon?”

 

Tom snorted.  “How could I forget?  The thugs of the Delta Quadrant, for whom hitting back at one of the other sects was far more important than the survival of their species as a whole.  Yes, and that Maj, what was his name?  The guy who thought Seska was his ticket to fame and fortune, when it was her playing him like a fiddle the second she got in his bed.”

 

He sobered a little.  “You’re right about power, I guess.  But I still don’t get it.  For me, the best thing to do with power, when you have it, is what’s in everybody’s interest.  Stuff like, don’t start a war except to defend yourself; don’t use up resources you can’t replace; and for Kahless’ sake, don’t do something now that causes problems for your children down the road”.

 

Kathryn smiled at him.  “Good thing you work for the Federation, then.  We have the occasional bad apples …”

 

“Don’t I know it…”

 

She ignored the interruption.  “… but luckily, they’re few and far between.  And in general, what you think should be done, the Federation does fairly well.  Or tries.”

 

Tom smiled.  “Even Nacheyev, the most devious person I know.”

 

Kathryn smiled.  “Yes.  Even Alynna Nacheyev.  Who, let’s not forget, is the one who sent us both here.”

 

They remained silent for a while, each lost in their respective thoughts.  Tom headed over to the replicator and ordered himself a cup of Earl Grey.  He looked questioningly at Kathryn, but she waved him off.

 

“I wonder what she said to him,” she finally remarked as she settled down on the couch in Tom’s ready room.  She touched the blue upholstery with her fingertips, as if still regarding the colour change as something requiring regular verification in order to be considered real.

 

“You mean, what Talith said to Naldar, to bring him onside?” 

 

Kathryn nodded, and sighed.  A small grin, somewhere between impish and smug, played around Tom’s mouth as he got up. 

 

“Do you want to hear it?”

 

He walked over to his desk in a few long strides and let his fingers play over the computer controls set into desktop as Kathryn cast him a questioning look.

 

Within seconds, Talith’s disembodied voice could be heard, hissing out the observation that regardless of whether she would be permitted to speak out in any public forum, history would judge Naldar.  And that history might – just _might_ – be kinder to the Supreme Talon’s memory, if she were able to provide the proper context for any decisions Talar had taken in those years of a brutal war.  She _would_ tell the truth.  So what would he prefer – the Talari version, or the Denarians’?

 

Kathryn shook her head, trying to suppress a chuckle.

 

“You had the computer _spy_ on the delegates’ discussions amongst themselves?  I didn’t know you were such a sneak, Tom Paris.” 

 

He raised an eyebrow, Tuvok-fashion -- something he had perfected some time ago to make Harry laugh, but didn’t usually use in public.  To his delight, it almost worked on their former Captain, who made a helpless gesture with one of her hands.

 

“Fine, I always suspected it.  I gather this … is this something Picard suggested you should do, in one of those … those _special_ course of his?”

 

Tom shrugged. 

 

“Guilty.  We called it ‘Dirty Tricks 31’.  But no, I haven’t been spying on the delegates.  I figured if you wanted me to, you’d ask.  But in this case … let’s just say I was curious as to what she said to change his mind.  _Personally_ curious.  All I did was to ask the computer to isolate what she said.  Same thing we did to figure out what Alqil said, when he killed Chowdhury and that terrorist in the brig.  There’s nothing particularly devious about it – something the computer could do anytime, really.”

 

He asked the computer to delete the recording before turning back to Kathryn.

 

“I guess we just never really got the chance to use our technology like that in the Delta Quadrant – that was always more of a guns-blazing, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants environment, wasn’t it?  Although you did figure out a few rather ingenious ways to infiltrate …”

 

Kathryn raised her finger to stop him.  “Don’t change the subject, Captain.  But yes, I do have to say, the Alpha Quadrant is a different place altogether.  Politics, maneuvers, power struggles, wherever you look.”

 

Her voice took on a slightly sly tone.  “And I _do_ have the feeling that you’re far better suited to this business than you like to think.  Although I’m not sure I want to be around when you decide to take it up full-time.”

 

Tom smiled dutifully, but shook his head determinedly.

 

“Little chance of that.  I’m perfectly happy telling the occasional Ferengi to piss off without starting a war, but otherwise I have zero ambition for diplomacy and the art of negotiation.”

 

Kathryn quickly turned serious again as well. 

 

“I suppose a bit of deviousness on your part won’t hurt, though, if the Orion Syndicate takes exception to what you – _we_ \-- did to their operation.”

 

Tom sat up and drained his tea. 

 

“You _really_ think they will?  Based on what I heard, they tend to go only after their own people; otherwise, they’re into extortion, not revenge.  No money in revenge.  I doubt they’d take the risk of bringing Starfleet down on their heads.”

 

Kathryn leaned back into the couch, twisting sideways, her left arm draped over the back, but her eyes only partly focused on the unmoving stars outside the observation window.  She remained silent for a while, then straightened and looked back at her former helmsman.  It was not lost on her that he was sitting in the same spot he had occupied only a few years earlier, talking about his love of the ocean that would drive them apart with almost fatal results.

 

How far they had both come since then.

 

“I hope you’re right.  But I don’t want to think about that now.  I really don’t.  Do you have any more of that merlot, Tom?  I think we’ve earned it, you and I.”

 

…..

 

_Two weeks later_

 

Set against a backdrop of different constellations, far from Denaros and Talar, the rendezvous with the USS Mandela -- an Ambassador-class ship frequently used by the Federation’s civilian diplomatic corps -- went off without a hitch.  The Mandela would pick up those members of the erstwhile delegations that would be called to appear before the _Commission on Peace and Justice for Denaros and Talar_ , as it was officially called, and take them to complete their journey while Voyager headed back to Sector 001. 

 

Qorath, Pakoth and Alqil had already been transported over, and their respective security details returned to Voyager.  They would be making the journey to Risa confined to their quarters, without access to communications until they could be joined by their legal advisers.  After all, the possibility of later criminal charges could not be discounted.

 

Small, bright, inoffensive Risa: the universal playground had no history of conflict and was linked to the Federation only by a series of mutual cooperation treaties.  Its Governing Council had long looked for their world to become known for something other than its opalescent beaches and complete sexual freedom.  So when the news broke that a neutral venue was needed for sensitive hearings, the Council had seized on the opportunity, hoping perhaps to turn arbitration and commissions on behalf of third parties into a new industry.  The Federation, in turn, had accepted the offer readily, spurred on by op-eds from the holovid media whose stringers were always game for stress-free assignments with recreational opportunities.  And if the particular locale were to give warring factions an idea of what bliss a thousand years of peace could buy, well, that would be a side benefit …

 

Cor Zelis, the young Bajoran transport specialist, was busily resetting the coordinates for the next transfer when Talith strode into the transporter room, a simple duffel slung over her shoulder.  The Talari Marshall was not subject to security restrictions, except for her own protection once she got to Risa.  Her aide, who had volunteered to accompany her on the journey, had been notified that he might be asked to testify and hence would be transported separately. 

 

And so, for the first time in many years, Talith was unaccompanied, entirely on her own.  Naldar had long since left Voyager, without so much as a goodbye for the much-sung Head of Talar’s Expeditionary Forces.  In the world of politics there was a long way between acceptance and forgiveness.

 

Talith seemed unaware of the lack of ceremony attending her departure from Voyager – however stark the contrast to her arrival, only a few weeks earlier, on the Gettysburg.  Her thoughts contained within herself and her features unreadable, she was about to step onto the platform when the doors to the transporter opened.  She turned and blinked back her surprise.

 

Tom Paris walked into the room, holding hands with Miral.  He inclined his head to Cor to signal her dismissal.  The Bajoran nodded, simply stating, “Coordinates are set, sir,” as she left.  Miral for her part said nothing, staring wide-eyed at the Talari soldier and taking in a new – for her – race of people with a mixture of curiosity and awe as she clung to her father’s hand.

 

“Marshall,” Tom said formally.  “As Captain of this ship, I thought it appropriate for me to see you off.”

 

He stumbled a little, slightly less sure of himself as he continued. 

 

“And I hope you don’t mind, but I brought someone I wanted you to meet.  And who I wanted to meet _you_.  This is Miral.”

 

Talith said nothing, her moonstone eyes gliding from father to daughter, taking in the dark hair, the softly ridged forehead, so different from the Captain’s smooth one, and so clearly not human.  But there was no mistaking the eyes, sparkling and blue.  She waited for the explanation, which she knew would come.

 

“Not that many generations ago, her mother’s ancestors and mine were at war, for over a century.  Bitter enemies, competing in the discovery of space and fighting each other every step of the way.  We settled our differences – mostly, anyway.  These days, Klingons and humans only snarl at each other occasionally.  But when it counts, our peoples stand together.”

 

He paused, briefly, to see whether she was following where he was going. 

 

“You see, it _is_ possible to change.  And once you’ve learned how to do that, and how to accept the possibility of peace, this …” he looked down fondly at Miral and ruffled her hair a little, “… _this_ is the result.”

 

There was a moment of silence in the transporter room, then, “She has he mother’s face, I see, but she has your eyes.  She is beautiful.”

 

It was quite possibly the most conversational, least consequential thing Tom had ever heard the Talari soldier utter.  He gave a small, quietly victorious smile. 

 

“Yeah, among a few other things.  She also has my big mouth.”

 

As if to prove his point, Miral pulled free from his hand.  She stepped up to Talith, small hands on her hips, Janeway-style, and looked her sternly in the eye.

 

“My Daddy says you might have to go to jail.”

 

“Miral …”  Tom’s composure fled him, and he flushed a little.  The mouth of babes was one thing, but maybe – just maybe – he should have kept his mouth shut to his perceptive and enterprising child about why he wanted to say goodbye to this woman ... 

 

He needed not have worried.

 

“Yes, it’s true.  There’s a possibility that I might,” Talith replied evenly.  “If the Commission finds that what I did in the war was a crime.  I don’t know whether it was, but I hope they will tell me.”

 

Miral nodded earnestly.

 

“Well, if you do go to jail, don’t worry about it.  My Daddy’s been to jail loads of times.  And he always got out, and now he’s the Captain.”

 

Talith cocked an eyebrow at Tom in evident surprise and question, but he wasn’t about to elaborate on his checkered past as, respectively, a failed, a falsely convicted and an eco-terrorist _._   Flying for the Maquis, wrongfully charged with 47 deaths on Akritiri, and attacking the underwater installations of Monea with intent …  A rather impressive list of charges, really, when you thought about it. 

 

He stared down at the grey sleeves of his uniform, command red peeking through at the wrist.  Tom Paris, erstwhile wannabe world mender, jailbird and rule breaker _extraordinaire._   He was tempted to snort a little contemptuously at himself.  Still, his daughter’s artless confession allowed him to say what he suddenly realized had been on his mind all along.

 

“Yeah, well, I guess maybe that’s why I really wanted to come here.  To let you know that allowing yourself to be judged for the right reasons is not necessarily a bad thing.  I also wanted you to know that I understand what you have done, and why.  And that I appreciate what you are doing now, and why.  That’s why I thought you should meet my daughter.  I also want her to remember you.”

 

He stopped, not knowing what else to say.  The idea to come here with Miral had come unbidden, and he still wasn’t sure whether it hadn’t been just one of his more harebrained misfires.

 

His doubts were dispelled when Talith spoke, in a tone he had not heard from her before.  Softly, with an audible catch in her voice, almost as if it was about to break.

 

“Thank you, Captain.  That … that means a lot.” 

 

She bent down on one knee, to bring her face closer to Miral’s. 

 

“May I touch you, little one?”

 

Miral looked up at Tom, the question clearly written across her face.  _You said never to touch a stranger._ He nodded his approval with a widening smile and she stepped closer, unsure of what to expect, only to find herself wrapped in an embrace that was a little awkward at first but tightened as Talith buried her face in the little girl’s hair. 

 

When the Talari finally let go, Miral stepped back and studied her with all the solemnity she could muster, clearly realizing something was expected of her, and content to deliver.

 

“Good luck in jail then, Miss, if you have to go.  I hope you get out soon and get to go home, like my Daddy.”

 

Talith suppressed something that sounded suspicious like a laugh, or perhaps it was something else.  She rose quickly to her feet and picked up her duffel.  Stepping up to the platform, she turned to face Tom.

 

“Goodbye, Captain,” she said, her voice hoarse. 

 

“You are right.  When I go before the Commission, I will not just speak for Dary.  I will speak for _all_ the children.  Jail, if it comes to that, is a small price to pay.” 

 

Tom simply nodded – what was there to say, really? -- and took Miral’s hand again.  Together, they went over to the console and he activated the command sequence entered earlier by Cor Zelis.

 

He caught and held Talith’s gaze for one last moment.  And he may have been wrong, but just as she shimmered out of existence, he thought he saw her eyes fill with years of unshed tears.

 

___________________________________________

_  
_

NOTE: 

 

The _salut_ (salute, obviously) is what really concludes the match.  At its traditional best, it is a ritual movement of the blade, starting with a vertical one to his or her unmasked face to salute the opponent and followed by a three-point wave intended to encompass the judge, supporters and spectators.  Most of the time these days it ends up being a bit of a casual wave, frankly, but even that is always followed by a handshake with the ungloved, non-weapon hand.

 

In rare instances, this beautiful moment is marred by bad blood between the fencers, their teams, or just plain bad manners.  But mostly it is what it is:  A _beau geste_ dating back to the Age of Chivalry, intended to show respect for one’s opponent and an end to the hostilities.  

 

Until the next match, that is.


	15. Epilogue

****

_I_

****

_A world away, on a planet circling Bellatrix, the star that forms the right shoulder of Orion, the heavy summer night was pierced by the song of giant cicadas when the news was brought to the Lady:  The venture with the Ferengi consortium had failed._

_“Who?”_

_She inquired mildly, Her hungry eyes running down the sweat-sheened body of the servant who had bared himself to Her fully, in accordance with Her preference, to bring the unwelcome news that a promising endeavour had ended in failure.  Her sharp, silver-tipped nails ran narrow red trails down his chest as She awaited his response._

_His answer began with a hiss of pain -- as it should – but subtly vibrant with pleasure that he would be able to give Her what She needed._

_“Daimon Kol of Ferenginor and Malis Khar of Rigel, for the Syndicate and its allies.  Captain Thomas Paris and Admiral Kathryn Janeway, for Starfleet.”_

_Her nails ceased their travel, and her brow furrowed at the third name.  She remembered the last time it had been spoken here, in the mansion carved into the Kalaor hills.  And because the scented air carried the bitter taste of Her displeasure, and because Her hand continued to linger on his chest, the servant did not wait to be told what to do._

_“I assume Orders will include them all this time, My Lady.”_

_It was a statement much more than it was a question.  And it was beyond audacious of the servant to remind Her that there_ had _been a previous time, when She had refrained from issuing an Order that it had been her right to give.  Was he suggesting She had failed?_

_The Lady’s emerald eyes narrowed sharply at his presumption and Her fingertips momentarily caressed the whip that never left Her side.  She stopped and rose, allowing the motionless servant to release his carefully held breath as Her lips twisted into the barest of smiles.  With the tip of her tongue, She bent and reached for the thin trail of blood running down his chest, giving Her acceptance of both his suggestion and his willingness to become, once more, the vessel into which to pour Her disappointment._

_They understood one another very well indeed._

 

_  
_

_II_

_The rainy season came early to the continent of Kyven and this time, when it came, the ashes at last stopped their dance -- unable to withstand for another year the water that sought to bring them to ground._

_One by one the heavy drops fell, turning into rivulets that ran off the hills.  Those soon swelled the ancient web of rivers in their annual race to the sea, grey waters carrying dust and memories that would harden into stone where they sank.  With the turning years new banks and islands would be born, and the rivers would find new paths – but not yet._

_Seabirds were the first to reclaim the empty land.  They came with the rains that year, tentative emissaries from the outlying islands, and nested in the barren rocks, small flocks at first that soon grew with the silence they found.  The birds carried in their bellies seeds picked up in their journeys, dropping them as they wheeled in the sky; additional seeds would come on the winds they rode._

_Small sea mammals returned on the spring tides to sun themselves on the rocks.  No longer forced to compete for food with the fishermen of the coast, they too soon numbered in their thousands._

_When the rains receded and the sun returned to the sky, a delegation of Federation terraformers came to Kyven, to see what could be done once their other project in the sector was completed.  Along the coast they found that the endless sea of grey was pierced by blades of grass, with a promise of wild flowers by summer’s end._

 


End file.
